


GraveRobbin'

by EleanorC



Series: Of The Benuvolent Birds Hoopoets Twitter Tails For [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Robin (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Angst, Breaking of the Rule, Bruce is in a really bad mental place, Canon-Typical Violence, Character death is Jason, Character death is not just Jason anymore, Eventual Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Pre-Relationship, THE SERIES I MEAN, for now, lot's of flashbacks, not this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2020-09-06 00:14:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 72,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20282203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EleanorC/pseuds/EleanorC
Summary: Tim isn’t sure how long he’s standing in front of the grave before he finally finds the words to say.“Hey Jason,” he starts, voice barely above a whisper, “I don’t know if you remember me, I’m Tim. We met at a couple of those charity functions you hate so much.”Thirteen year old Tim swears he only meant to go to Jason's grave to talk to him that first time. He finds himself coming back time after time. For a long time, it feels like the reasons he does only get sadder, until they don't.





	1. Sunny Days And Rainy Nights

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!
> 
> So, this is my first DC fic, and I'm really excited to be posting this.  
Not sure yet how long this'll be, it might become a series, but we'll see how it goes.  
Hope you guys'll like it, feel free to let me know what you think. ^^
> 
> Eleanor. 
> 
> ps. Special thanks to Timmy, njw, and Firefox from the Timmy server for beta'ing ^^.

The first time Tim visits Jason’s grave, it’s an obnoxiously sunny day. It’s late April and the sun is high in the sky. A pleasant breeze prevents Tim from sweating in the school uniform he didn’t have time to change out of, but the atmosphere feels oppressive anyway. Maybe that’s just a cemetery thing, Tim wouldn’t know, it’s his first time visiting one. He searches the straight, neat lanes of graves, trying to keep as silent as possible. Both from some instinct to be respectful, and to prevent attracting attention. Some of the graves are better kept than others, and Tim wonders what happened to the people resting there. He searches until he recognizes Mr. Wayne in the distance.

Tim doesn’t dare go close enough to hear the ceremony, but he glances at it from the corners of his eyes. Besides Mr. Wayne, he recognizes Mr. Pennyworth, Commissioner Gordon, and a young woman in a wheelchair that has to be Barbara Gordon, the commissioner's daughter. The last attendant must be the funeral celebrant, and Tim wonders whether Jason was religious in any way. There’s a second casket, which surprises Tim, and he absently wonders who’s in it. He wanders the cemetery, pretending to be visiting a gravestone with a date that could possibly represent a passed grandparent, and waits. First for the wake to end, then for the men covering the grave to be finished, before he approaches.

Then he just stands there, hands hanging limp at his side, one of them just barely holding on to a single lily stem. He feels a strange mix of resentment and grief as he looks at the grave, not even a headstone in place yet. The grief makes sense, though maybe it shouldn’t; he barely knows—knew—Jason, after all, he has been feeling a tightness in his chest ever since he realized something must have happened. He has felt like a great, big thundercloud has been following him wherever he went, like any moment the world around him could collapse.The resentment is a new development, though, and Tim struggles to identify what it’s _ for. _ It brings a tension to his shoulders he’s not used to, and Tim struggles not to crush the flower in his hand. 

Tim looks at the grave in front of him, and identical one to the right of it. There are no headstones yet, those will probably be placed later. There are a few flowers resting on top of the still loose soil. Lisianthus, Tim thinks, if he recognizes it correctly, and he wonders why Mr. Wayne would choose that particular flower. Tim wants to step forward to add the lily to the pile, but he feels an invisible wall holding him back. Should he even be here? He can count the number of times he managed to scrape together enough courage to talk to Jason on one hand. Does he have any right to mourn him? Is this as close as he should be allowed?

Tim had known, the moment Bruce Wayne returned from an unannounced business trip two days ago without his son, that something was wrong. Tim had hoped against all hope that Jason was simply injured during their trip, but the set of Mr. Wayne’s shoulders had betrayed the truth.

Jason Todd, Robin, had died.

Tim knew he was taking a risk when he decided to follow Batman to his son’s funeral, in his public persona. Knew there was a chance he would be discovered, but he had to be sure.

Watching the funeral from a distance, he _ had _been sure.

Tim isn’t sure how long he’s standing in front of the grave before he finally finds the words to say.

“Hey Jason,” he starts, voice barely above a whisper, “I don’t know if you remember me, I’m Tim. We met at a couple of those charity functions you hate so much.”

“I don’t know what happened to you, Jason, I probably never will.” Tim smiles wistfully. “Knowing you, you were probably doing something reckless, and incredibly heroic.” Tim feels the resentment click into its proper place as he continues, “and I’m really, really sure you deserve better than to be buried in secret like this, like some sort of dirty little—” 

Tim feels his voice rise, and abruptly stops talking, both because he’s embarrassed at his loss of temper (his mother taught him better than that), and to look around to see if anyone heard him.

It’s true though, Jason, Robin, deserves better than to be buried in secret, with only five witnesses to the event, six if Tim counts himself. Deserves better than whatever bogus story they will come up with to explain the disappearance of Bruce Wayne’s adopted son. Where are his friends? Where are the other heroes? Where is Dick Grayson? Shouldn’t at least his brother be here? What could possibly keep him from attending? For a horrible second, Tim looks over to the second grave. What if—? No, that can’t be, right? There is no possible way that the first Robin also died. Nope, no way. 

Then, Tim remembers that there are tiny little plates set up at the edges of the graves, temporary name plates until the proper headstones arrive. He almost doesn’t dare look, because he doesn’t think he can handle that, but eventually Tim holds his breath, steels himself, and looks at the other nameplate. 

Sheila Haywood, it says. 

Tim let’s go of his breath. Okay, so Dick’s not dead. So why isn’t he here? Tim doesn’t know Dick much better than he did Jason, but he’s sure he wouldn’t miss his little brother's funeral for anything short of an alien invasion. Tim’s checked the news this morning, no alien invasions. So that brings Tim back to the question; where is Dick Grayson? 

Then, because Tim is apparently only capable of having horrible thoughts right then, he thinks, what if Dick doesn’t even know? What if he’s deep undercover, or sick, or hurt? Would Bruce keep it from Dick? Tim doesn’t think so, but he also didn’t think he’d keep his son’s death a secret either, so there’s that. 

Tim falls into silence again as he digests the fact that he’s a little mad at _ the Batman _ of all people. Not a situation he ever imagined himself in.

“I guess I just wanted to let you know, I will remember you, even if no one else does.”

With that Tim walks away. He doesn’t leave the lily with the lisianthus, that would just raise Batman’s suspicions. Instead, he puts it with a bunch of other flowers on a random, but obviously well cared for, plot.

-

The first time Tim visits Jason’s grave, it is obnoxiously sunny. The second time Tim visits, it’s like the weather finally clued in on the fact that Gotham lost one of its protectors, and it’s grieving appropriately. Translation: it’s raining cats and dogs.

Tim hasn’t bothered with an umbrella, never does when he goes out to try and catch pictures of his heroes. He stands in front of the grave he visited only a few weeks before, the same spot, the same stance. Tonight, he’s wearing a dark hoodie and jeans over sneakers that he prefers to wear when he’s taking his night-time pictures, as opposed to the school uniform from the funeral, the lily replaced with the strap of his camera, the camera itself resting against the side of his knee.

Tim’s hoodie is so thoroughly soaked that the hood isn’t doing much to keep him dry anymore. His hair is sticking to his head in wet tangles, and the cold droplets traveling down his neck would give him shivers, if he was in any way aware of his body in the first place.

He’s faintly aware he probably should have put his camera in its case in his backpack. Faintly aware it’s probably ruined with how wet he’s allowed it to become. He can’t bring himself to care. He doesn’t think he’ll ever want to take pictures of Batman again anyway. Not after tonight.

This time, there’s a headstone; Jason Peter Todd, Rest In Peace. Not even a “Beloved Son”. No personal message. Nothing. Tim longs for the resentment he felt that first time he stood here, but he just feels numb now. There is no tension, no desire to scream in someone’s face. No need to thoroughly chew someone out in that way he sometimes sees his mother do. Just… nothing. 

“Hey Jason,” he says eventually, a reflection of his greeting on that sunny day. “I wasn’t going to come back here. It’s too risky, with your dad being who he is and all, but I need to talk to someone about what’s been happening since you…” Tim can’t quite bring himself to say it. “And, well—anyway, you’re my safest option.”

And so he starts talking.

-

The first few weeks after the funeral, Tim doesn’t go out. He doesn’t expect Batman to go out either. When he sees the activity on the Bat-watcher blogs one morning, he’s unpleasantly surprised to find that there were several Bat-sightings, after all. Even more so when he reads a report, complete with photographs, on the broken bones of several small-time muggers.

Just from the pictures, Tim feels a shiver run down his spine. At age 13, Tim has followed Batman long enough to have seen some pretty gruesome stuff, and has built a pretty strong stomach for that type of thing, but the knowledge that Batman did this? Tim has seen Batman take down countless criminals. But he never does unnecessary damage. This is vicious, cruel even. And very much not Batman.

He wants to go out that night, see for himself whether the rumors of Batman going berserk are true, but he can’t. His parents are home right now, leaving tomorrow, and they always want to have a family dinner the night before they go on a trip. They’ll check in with him on those nights as well, so he can’t leave his room after he goes to bed.

The next morning, Tim sees more of the same on the Bat-watcher blogs, and discussions on whether the reports are real are rising in tension. As Tim waves his parents off (literally, hugs are not for big boys), he decides he needs to see for himself.

All through his school day, Tim’s mind is whirring with possibilities. An imposter? It wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe fear gas, or some form of venom? Mind control? The list goes on and on as Tim barely pays attention in class, and by the time school lets out, Tim is itching for his camera, for the sun to go down, for Mrs. Mac to go home for the night.

She raises an eyebrow at him as he scarfs his meal down during dinner, and he makes up a lie about skipping lunch because he was working on a project (he did, in fact, skip lunch, but there was no project to speak of, unless you count predicting Batman’s patrol route for the night and planning what roofs are best for getting a good shot). The moment Mrs. Mac is out the door, Tim runs to his room to get changed. He checks his equipment, double checks if the camera has fresh film, pulls up the hood of the hoodie, and is out of his bedroom window climbing down the conveniently placed tree.

It takes a while for Tim to spot Batman, but that’s normal, it usually takes hours for Tim to find any of the Gotham vigilantes, if he finds them at all. Tonight, he’s secretly hoping he won’t see Batman. That Bruce Wayne did the mentally healthy thing, and decided to mourn his son properly.

He’s wrong.

It’s almost 1am by the time Tim spots him, and he retreats in the shadows as he sees Batman making his way towards him, following the exact route Tim predicted.

Tim feels a tickle of pride at that, before he sees Batman jump down into an alley across the street. There’s a group of thugs surrounding a lady. They are so caught up in whatever they’re doing to her that they don’t notice Batman approaching at first. Then again, Tim is sure they wouldn’t notice if they _ were _ paying attention, Batman is just that good, after all.

The first three assailants go down easily, and Tim almost thinks he overreacted. Batman is precise, efficient, and yes, he doesn’t usually break the bones of people who do relatively minor things, but he's mourning, he's angry. Tim gets it. If he was in this situation, if he had the physique, and capability to fight like Batman does, he would want to punch someone in the face right about now, too.

Although, Tim grimaces at the blood spurting on impact as Batman punches one of the crooks square in the nose, maybe not.

Still, Tim thinks it will be fine, that the reports were exaggerated, until he notices there is only one guy left, and that guy doesn't seem to be very conscious, either.

Tim's horror grows as Batman keeps punching a man who, it becomes more and more obvious, is in no way capable of fighting back any longer.

Usually, Batman would have started tying up the baddies by now, trying to get to the comforting-the-victim part of things ASAP, but he's not. It's savage, and it's not necessary, and it's not Batman.

Tim runs. 

He doesn’t stop running until he’s in front of Jason’s grave. 

\--

"I can't believe he would do that, Jason." Tim says, carefully keeping his voice low as he talks to the tombstone in front of him. It's close to 3 a.m. by now, and Tim has become increasingly aware that it's weird to be in a cemetery at this time of night. Although it’s not as spooky as one might expect. The rain is still pouring, but Tim isn’t any more aware of the cold than he was when he first got there.

"It's like he doesn't even care about the doing-good part of it. Like the violence is what he’s after." Tim looks thoughtfully at the name in front of him. "I'm sure you'd be weirded out by it as well. It's so not like him."

Tim is hesitant to say the next bit. "Then again, if you could see him right now, he wouldn't be like this, would he?" 

Tim is sure of it, this sudden change in Batman's behavior is too close to Jason's death not to be related to it, and besides, "I read in a book today that there are several stages of grief, and anger is one of them." 

At least Tim really hopes that's what's happening, he doesn't know what he'll do otherwise.

"He's just angry at the world right now, and at himself too, I bet," Tim says to Jason, because it really feels like he is talking to Jason. "I bet he just needs to get through this stage, and the over the top violence will stop." The more Tim says it, the more he finds himself believing it. 

"Yeah, I'm sure of it. Don't worry, Jason, He'll be fine. He's Batman after all." And Batman is invincible, Tim thinks, and if he ignores the little voice in his head that whispers to Tim; _ That's what you thought about Robin _, that's Tim's business.

"He's Batman, and he'll be fine in no time, and when he is, I'll bring you the good news." Tim says with finality, gripping his camera strap tightly. "So just you wait, and I'll talk to you soon, bye Jason."

Tim turns and walks away from the grave, sure he's come to the right conclusion, and when he turns to look at the tombstone one final time, he can almost imagine Jason standing near it, grinning that Robin grin at him.


	2. Lukewarm Gazpacho And Broken Collarbones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Yeah, well. I got news for ya, kiddo. It’s not gonna stop until you get about a foot taller. And besides,” he reaches out, and, to Tim’s utter horror, ruffles his hair thoroughly, “with a cute kid like you? Who could resist?” _
> 
> Tim was sure, absolutely convinced even, that meeting your heroes wasn’t supposed to go like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super-duper big thanks to njw for beta'ing again ^^. 
> 
> I love feedback, so let me know what you guys think. Things you like, things you don't. It helps me get ideas for the rest of the fic.

The third time Tim visits Jason's grave, it's a dreary, dark day. Despite it being early June, Tim shivers in his school uniform. It doesn’t rain, but there’s the threat of it constantly looming overhead. Someone’s planted flowers in front of the headstone, zinnias in several colors, and sweet peas, behind it, a tea rosebush with deep pink flowers. Tim’s brought a single lily again, and he toys with it as he thinks of what to say. 

"Hey, Jason," he ends up saying. It’s starting to become his standard greeting, "I'm sorry, I know I said I'd come bring you good news, but I don't have any yet." Batman is not doing better, and neither is Bruce Wayne, who’s drowning himself in Wayne Enterprises. 

"I just wanted to talk to someone, and I know it's probably a bit weird, but you always seemed like a good listener to me." 

Tim pauzes, searching for a way —for the courage— to start. "My mom called me yesterday, the dig is apparently going really well." Tim pauses when his voice catches. He refuses to cry, his mom told him he's too old to cry now, especially in public. "It's going so well, that they're staying a bit longer. To see if they can find more artifacts and to supervise the workers. Dad's afraid they won't be careful enough and might break something invaluable. That's also why I can never come.”

Tim sinks to sit on the slightly damp grass opposite the headstone, his toes touching the edge of the plot. He knows Mrs. Mac will be mad at him later for the grass stain that will undoubtedly end up on his pants.

"I know what they do is important. Really, I do! Dad does important work, and mom is always busy running Drake Industries, and they keep telling me we can live like we do because they work hard, so I understand. I just wish they were around a little more often." Tim pulls up his legs so he can wrap his arms around his knees. "If you can actually hear me talking, you're probably laughing at me. Or glaring. The way you glared at Mrs. Tracy when she was complaining about the food at the Wayne Christmas gala last year."

-

Tim suppresses a flinch as yet another high society lady pinches his cheek. Or at least, she tries to, but her long, fake nails end up scratching Tim’s face instead. He knows the red mark will disappear in a few minutes, if it even leaves a mark in the first place. Still, don’t these ladies understand he’s thirteen now? He’s too old for the whole cheek pinching, hair ruffling affair. Don’t they understand _ he’s _ the one his mother will be displeased with if they mess up his hair? 

From the way she looks at him, she’s about to ask him all the usual questions. The ones that pretend to show real interest in Tim’s life, but actually cover up the fact that he’s not important enough for the other party to remember the details of his life. Questions like: _ “How old are you now, Timothy?” _ and _ “What year are you in now, Timothy?” _ , but also the ever wonderful _ “I bet with parents like yours, you’ll grow up to be real clever. How do you like school, Timothy?” _ Tim already _ is _ smart, thank you very much, no more growing up needed. 

Before the lady can open her mouth to fire away her torrent of pretend-care questions, Tim sharply turns his head, pretending to hear his name. 

“I am so sorry, Mrs. Langdon,” he says, schooling his face to look appropriately apologetic, “I believe I hear my mother calling, it would not do to make her worry.” 

Tim vaguely hears her say another disgustingly appraising thing, something about how well-behaved he is, but Tim isn’t listening. No, Tim’s more worried about the hand she’s raising. A good thing too, because if he wasn’t paying attention to it, he wouldn’t have been able to skillfully duck under the incoming hair-ruffle. He does turn to smile and wave at her innocently, can’t have her get offended, after all. 

Tim looks around the Wayne manor ballroom in search of a spot from which he can admire the room in peace. Maybe get something to eat, too, since he’s been trying to make his way over to the buffet since the start of the gala. He keeps getting stopped by cheek-grabbers and hair-rufflers. A gap opens in the crowd to Tim’s right, and he spots one of the buffet tables in that direction. He makes his way over, swerving further to his right to avoid Headmaster Brueckner, when he notices him trying to catch his attention. 

Nope, no way. No one else will come between Tim and his quest for food. More specifically, his quest for Mr. Pennyworth’s amazing tiramisu. Also his other heavenly dishes, but mainly the tiramisu. As Tim is piling a plate with delicious goodies, his attention is drawn to Mrs. Tracy, who is loudly complaining. 

“It’s an _ outrage _ , the things serving staff think they can get away with these days.” she says to anyone in hearing range, “I mean, truly, _ look _ at this gazpacho, it is positively lukewarm. I really feel the Wayne help is getting up there in age, a shame, for he used to be so good. Brucie should consider letting him go.” 

Tim grits his teeth and refrains from informing Mrs. Tracy it’s not so weird her gazpacho is warming up when she’s more concerned with critiquing it than eating it. He rolls his eyes as he turns back to the table, only to spot something that almost makes him drop his plate. 

Jason Todd is standing right _ there _. 

Sure, Tim’s seen him before, talked to him even, but it never went beyond polite exchanges within hearing range of legal guardians, _ and that’s Robin standing right there. _ And he’s glaring a really impressive glare at Mrs. Stacy. And Tim finds himself thinking; _ if looks could kill _, but that isn’t the important thing right now because the important thing is over there.There, on the other side of the buffet table, in a secluded part of the ballroom, is Robin and Tim needs to look away before he’s caught sta—.

Too late. Jason’s meeting his eye, and is that Tim’s imagination, or did Jason’s glare mellow out just a little bit? Tim really should look away now, but he can’t bring himself to, and when one of Jason’s eyebrows lifts just a tiny little bit in question, Tim finds himself walking around the table and towards him. 

It’s not until he’s halfway there that what he’s doing sets in, and he panics. 

What’s he doing? He’s got nothing interesting to say to Robin. Not anything that will interest the other boy, at least. What’s he gonna do? Talk about Warlocks and Warriors? What interest could Robin possible have in WnW?

Wait, no. Bigger problem. That’s not Robin, that’s Jason Todd, Tim can’t go around calling him Robin. 

By the time Tim stops next to where Jason is leaning against a wall, he’s completely wrapped up in his panicked thoughts. His brain is overloading, and it’s not until the inquiring eyebrow raises just a little higher that Tim manages to get out a small, “Hey.”

“Hi,” Jason says, and Tim wills himself to keep his cool. However much he had of it in the first place. 

He turns back to look at the elegantly decorated ballroom as silence settles over the pair, and the pressure Tim feels to say something interesting makes him think instead that this is almost as bad as talking to the old ladies was earlier. Except this is awkward where that was tedious. The plate he loaded with food feels heavy in his hand, the cutlery clinking as he shifts.

“You need something, kid?” Comes Jason’s voice, a rough edge to it, and what might be irritation. Oh no. Not good. Did Tim annoy Jason already? Is he that mad to have his solitude disturbed? 

_ Quick _ , Tim thinks, _ say something. _

“I need the cheek-pinchers and the hair-rufflers to leave me alone.” 

_ Not that. _

Tim’s voice sounds petulant to his own ears, and if the floor could swallow him up right about now, that would be appreciated. 

He hears a choking sound next to him, and when he turns he finds Jason slapped his hand over his mouth and is trying to suppress his laughter. 

When Tim realizes he’s being laughed at, he narrows his eyes. Before he knows it, he’s glaring at Robin. Later that night, he will lie in bed and despair, because how dare he glare at _ Robin _? But for now, “Is my suffering really that funny?” 

At that, Jason seems to lose the battle with himself, and lets out loud guffaws of laughter. 

When there doesn’t appear to be an end to it any time soon, Tim cranks up his glare a level. The way he’s seen his mother do when she’s unsatisfied with the work of her employees. 

That seems to register with Jason. “Sorry, sorry. Geeze, that’s one glare you got on you, kid,” he says, “I promise I’m not laughing at you, if that’s what you’re thinking, and you can hide here from the oh-so-evil ‘cheek-pinchers’ and ‘hair-rufflers’ for as long as you like.” The cheeky bastard air quotes the words.

Tim pouts. “It really is evil, you know.” 

Jason chuckles at that. “Yeah, well. I got news for ya, kiddo. It’s not gonna stop until you get about a foot taller. And besides,” he reaches out, and, to Tim’s utter horror, ruffles his hair thoroughly, “with a cute kid like you? Who could resist?” 

Tim ducks away from the offending hand, careful to keep his plate level, and moves his cutlery around on the plate so he can fix his hair, grumbling all the while. Jason smiles, and apologizes, and then they just sorta stand there for a while, until Tim remembers his manners. 

“Thanks,” he says, “For letting me hide here.”

“Anytime, Kiddo.” Jason chuckles again before moving off and Tim finally starts eating his food. 

He’s so invested in eating his dessert that he doesn’t notice when Jason returns with a plate of his own. 

“So, if you _ had _to pick a best science fiction franchise of all time, what would it be?” he asks, causing Tim to jump a little, “Star Wars or Star Trek?” 

Tim’s so surprised (and just a little offended that those are the only options), that he answers without thinking, “Doctor Who.”

-

Tim rests his forehead against his knees, not brave enough to look at Jason's name carved into the marble as he says the next bit. "I wonder what you thought of me, when I talked to you. Probably wondered what the snotty rich kid wanted from you."

"Either that, or you were wondering why the big geek dared interrupt your evening. I can't believe you listened to my rant about Doctor Who. Seriously, why did you put up with me?"

Tim raises his eyes back to the headstone. Jason wasn't one to suffer fools, and one of the reasons he was often looked down on within Gotham's higher circles was that he wouldn't stop himself from telling Gotham's richest what's what.

Tim had secretly admired that about Jason, who to Tim appeared to be as fearless outside of red-and-yellow as in it. It dawns on Tim that he's getting off topic.

"Anyway, mom said they'll be staying in Zanzibar a bit longer, so I shouldn't expect them home for two more months, which is fine, of course. Like I said, they do important work."

Tim feels his throat close up and he has to take a couple deep breaths because he. Will. Not Cry. "It's just—" Another few breaths, "They promised to be home for my birthday, you know?"

Despite Tim's greatest effort, the tears escape him, and he buries his face in his knees to hide it.

"They promised, and I'm almost 14 now, and I'm too old to cry about little things like that, and I'm rich, and I have lots of things other kids don't have, so I shouldn't complain, right? That's what you'd tell me, right? But they promised, and parents should also keep their promises, and it's not fair!"

Tim hears himself shout the last part. He takes a few deep breaths more and raises his head to stare a little bitterly at the marble in front of him.

"I bet you think I'm really pathetic right about now. The rich boy crying because his parents are too busy getting richer." Tim pauses. "Or maybe not, you were always kind to me."

Tim falls silent for a while then, and slowly, his tears start to dry. "I broke my camera that night when I came to talk to you about Batman. Mom promised me a new one for my birthday, so I guess that means at least she hasn't forgotten about it. She wanted to get me a digital one, but I can't do that. Digital pictures means digital storage, and that can be hacked. I can't risk that with pictures of Batman."

The cemetery is silent, but a strong wind has started blowing through the trees lining the paths, and the beginnings of a storm can be heard in the distance.

"Batman is not doing better yet," he says after a while, "I saw him break the Riddler’s collarbone two days ago." 

-

After that first night Tim saw what losing Robin did to Batman, he doesn't go out to take pictures for a while, it's not like he can, now that his camera is busted. A little over a week later, though, the rumors surrounding Batman show no signs of slowing down. Tim is still convinced Batman will be alright, that he'll recover and will start acting himself again.

It's just leftover rumors, Tim decides, as he packs a midnight snack, and double checks his supplies for the night.

No camera, though he could take his old one if he really wanted. But he's gotten used to the quality of the new one, and he knows he won't be satisfied with the results his spare one will give him no matter how carefully he takes his pictures.

So all he takes is his bottle of water, snack, cellphone, flashlight, and pepper spray (Tim's not stupid, he knows it's dangerous outside at night).

He tugs on his black hoodie over his t-shirt, puts the flashlight and the pepper spray in the front pocket and his phone in his jeans. After double checking one last time whether he memorized the predicted patrol for that night correctly, he ducks through his window, climbing down the tree next to it.

It takes Tim a while to get to the city centre, and when he does, it takes even longer to hear even a whisper about Batman. That is, until Tim hears someone mention something about the docks, explosions, and the Riddler.

Tim pauses. He usually doesn't go anywhere near the docks. Unlike downtown, where there are always enough people around for a kid his size to blend in, the docks tend to be deserted at night, save for exactly the type of shady people Tim would usually hide from.

Still, Batman has been acting out of character, and Tim needs to see for himself whether he's doing better yet or not. So Tim hops on a bus, then another, and sneaks his way into the docks area, all the way promising himself he'll turn around at the first sign of gunfire.

It's not hard to find out where the Riddler is held up when Tim arrives. One of the warehouses is lit up like a Christmas tree, and there are police cars surrounding the building. Tim looks at the warehouse for a while, wishing he could get closer somehow, until he notices the warehouse next to it has an open door.

Tim carefully walks over to the door, and peeks inside. It's an empty storehouse of some sort, with a ladder to a loft, which has a window. He climbs up the ladder, hoping to get a better view of the warehouse. What he finds is a broken window, and an unconscious henchman, tied up.

Tim nearly turns to leave, but then a sound just outside the window grabs his attention.

It sounds like voices, and as Tim walks closer to the window, he realises this is how Batman must have entered the other warehouse. Not a meter from the window, is another window, also broken, and Tim can see the Riddler standing below. Holding a revolver pointed at the head of what looks like a dockworker.

"How about it, Batman?" he asks the shadows. 

The Riddler seems to be gearing up to ask another one of his riddles, but he doesn’t get that far.

What happens next, Tim has trouble following. Partly because the lights go off, and partly because it happens so fast. In what seems like absolutely no time at all to him, the lights flicker back on, and the Riddler is on his knees, one hand behind his back in a tight grip in Batman's hand. The gun is a few feet away on the floor, and the dockworker is scrambling to a corner, where he crouches, seeming to want to make himself as small as possible.

Tim lets out a relieved breath; that's the way he's used to seeing it, quick, calculated, efficient. No unnecessary infliction of damage or pain. Now Batman will tie the Riddler up, signal that it's safe for the police to enter, and leave the crime-scene to them.

Tim is already stepping back, vaguely missing his camera when he sees something in Batman shift. He doesn't know what it is, but something is wrong in his posture. It's, tense, almost. The Riddler is saying something under his breath, and Tim isn't close enough to hear it.

Whatever it is, it sets Batman off in a way Tim's never seen before. In a flash, Batman raises his free arm, hooked so the elbow makes a sharp point and drives it down towards the Riddler’s shoulder. Hard.

Tim closes his eyes not to see it, but that just makes the crack of the bone snapping that much worse.

"You don't get to talk about him. You don't get to say his name," Batman roars, and Tim has a feeling he knows who the topic of conversation was.

Batman proceeds to tie the Riddler's hands behind his back, showing absolutely no concern for the broken bone, and then promptly leaves.

Tim stays where he is, staring at the Riddler in shock. He vaguely registers one of the tied up henchmen saying, "Did you really have to provoke him about the bird, boss?"

As Tim turns to leave, he hears the Riddler groan, and grumble, "Do you blame me for asking? No one's seen the Boy Wonder in weeks."

As Tim climbs down the ladder he meets the eyes of the henchman that had been passed out beside him. This man is not just tied up, but gagged as well, and Tim can see the fear in his eyes. If the police didn't think to check in here before, there's a chance they won't do it later either.

Tim can't just leave the man lying there, but he can't cut him loose either. He leaves the warehouse and looks at the police milling around the area, no one paying him any attention as he stands in the shadows.

An idea pops into Tim's head and he sneaks into another shadow, a bit away from the door, before taking his water bottle, and throwing it as hard as he can against the door of the warehouse he just exited. He waits just long enough to see a policeman look at the source of the sound, before ducking around a corner, and booking it back towards the bus stop.

It's not until Tim's in bed that he realises his fingerprints are probably all over that bottle, and he doesn't get even a wink of sleep that night, expecting either Batman or the police to come looking for him.

-

"I don't know what to do, Jason," Tim says, "He's Batman, and he still fights bad guys, but he's so angry all the time."

A lot of people think that angry is Batman's main setting, but Tim's seen the way he interacts with Robin, either of them, when he thinks no one is looking. Tim knows better,

Then again, the Riddler did talk about his dead son, so anger is probably to be expected. But to break his collarbone? Tim can still hear it snap, even a day later. 

“I read online that the Joker was brought into Arkham in a full body cast a week after you died,” Tim says, “Is he—? Did he—?” Tim can’t say it. 

“Hey Jason, Batman will be alright, right?” Tim asks. “He just misses you, right?” 

As always there is no answer. 

“Right.”

Tim leaves the cemetery, leaving the lily three graves down from Jason’s. Batman will be fine, because Tim has no idea what to do if he won’t. 


	3. Midnight Screaming And Brotherly Bonding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Is there any particular reason I’m locked out of the cave?”_  
Tim overhears way more than he ever wanted to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: detailed description of panic attack ahead. 
> 
> Thanks once again to njw for beta'ing ^^.

Over the course of the summer, Tim starts visiting Jason’s grave regularly. Despite the supposed risk of running into Jason’s family during the day, Tim never sees anyone else visiting the grave. He never visits more than once a day, and never two days in a row, but usually at least once a week.

Tim talks to Jason about his life, updates him on Batman’s status, and then talks about whatever subject he fancies, until he feels he has to go. Then he leaves his customary lily at the grave three plots down, and goes about his life. 

Over time he starts to talk more and more about himself to Jason. He tells him about his parents, about their work, and about how they still haven’t made plans to come home. He talks about school, and how he has relatively few friends, but is really close to those he does have. How he knows he can never tell any of them about his visits, that he wishes he could, but won’t endanger them like that. Because telling them about the visits means telling them about the other stuff, and that he _ really _ can’t do. He also tells Jason when Mrs. Tracy is rumored to have broken her wrist when she tripped over her chihuahua. He thinks Jason would have gotten a good laugh from that. 

Once, near the end of June, Tim arrives to find fresh pink roses at the grave. He doesn’t think much of it at the time, and goes about his visit as he usually does. When he returns later that night, breaking his routine, he has a strong suspicion on who left the roses. 

“Hey Jason,” he greets, a little breathless, a pressure on his chest that won’t allow him full use of his lungs, stuck with emotions he’s trying so hard to push down. “I didn’t bring you a flower this time, sorry.” 

It’s nonsensical to think about that now, Tim knows that, but he’s still reeling, hardly believes what he just heard. He’s clutching a plastic bag in his hand, and remembers to relax the muscles in his hand, dropping the bag to the grass in the process. 

“Seems Dick left you the roses, huh? It’s good that he finally visited you.” Ever since the funeral, Tim has wondered where Dick was in all this. But no matter how much he researched it, he couldn’t find anything on his location. There were no reports of Titans activity, no reports on Nightwing himself, nothing on Dick Grayson. Now he knows, and he wishes he didn’t. 

-

Ever since that night with the Riddler, Tim has started taking his old camera along. Not necessarily because he _ wants _ to go back to his hobby, but because he feels the need to document Batman’s behavior. He’s not sure yet what he’ll do with the pictures he takes now, just that he needs to take them. 

It’s become easier to predict where Batman will be, but Tim isn’t sure whether _ he _ has gotten better at it, or _ Batman’s _ simply gotten more predictable. Or maybe he’s just been getting lucky. 

_ Or unlucky, _ he thinks when Batman alights on the roof he had been about to climb on. It _ is _ luck that Tim manages to hide himself on the fire escape directly under the roof without being found. Batman usually doesn’t touch this particular building, neither do any of the other bats, it’s why Tim likes hanging out up here to take his pictures. 

Tim sits on the fire escape, quietly contemplating his luck, or lack thereof, when the reason Batman broke his habit presents itself. 

“Is there any particular _ reason _ I’m locked out of the cave?” A voice asks, and Tim can’t be sure, but he _ thinks _ it’s—

“Nightwing.” Is it Tim, or is that the type of growl Batman usually reserves for the rogues?

“Well?” Nightwing asks, and _ he _ also sounds more tense than Tim would expect him to when talking to Batman. Something about their tones freezes him, and while he wants to take a peek over the edge of the roof, he can’t risk it. He’s too close, they’d notice. 

“Giving outsiders access to one’s headquarters is a security risk,” Batman says, and Tim can’t believe what he’s hearing. 

Neither, it seems, can Nightwing. “Excuse me, outsider? Since when am I an outsider?” Dick asks, and it’s Dick asking the question, not Nightwing. Tim’s sure of it. 

“You’re not my partner anymore.” There is so much venom in those words Tim flinches, and he lowers himself to sit on the grating of the fire escape, leaning his back against the bricks of the building and clutching his knees to his chest. 

“Bullshit,” Nightwing grinds out, and the cuss sounds strange in his voice, “I haven’t been your partner for years, you’ve never shut me out of the cave before.” 

Somewhere in the back of Tim’s mind, he saves that little tidbit of information, that there’s a cave functioning as headquarters, but his ears are ringing about the insights he’s getting that he shouldn’t. This is a family matter, private. He should leave, but he’s frozen in place. He can’t walk away from this fight any more than he can walk away when his parents do it. 

“A mistake, one I’ve rectified,” Batman says, his voice cold. 

“And informing your son his brother was killed, is that also a security risk?” Dick’s voice wavers, and Tim really should leave, but he’s frozen in place. He should at least cover his ears, but his hands are shaking so badly he doesn’t think he could cover them properly if he tried. 

“He wasn’t your brother, you were never my son.” The world around Tim freezes. He suspected something happened between Bruce and Dick, but this? This isn’t simple disagreement. 

“No, I’m just the orphan you took in and raised in your own image. When that failed you moved on to the next one. I may not have been your son, B, but Jay was my brother.” Dick’s voice is steadily rising in volume, but he doesn’t shout quite yet. A tiny, desperate corner of Tim’s mind wants to scream at them to quiet down, before any unwanted ears hear them. 

“Don’t lie to yourself. You never even liked him.” In contrast, Bruce’s voice is turning into more of a hiss. Tim presses his face to his knees, his eyes closed, and wills for this all to be a dream. A really bad, really realistic dream. 

Dick’s voice softens, sounds affectionate, “I liked him fine, once I got to know him a little,” only to harden again. “But it’s a little hard to get close to someone when that person lives with someone you’re actively avoiding.” 

“You never wanted him to be Robin.” Batman accuses. Tim can’t even imagine it. What would it have meant for Jason if Dick had been against him taking the mantle?

“Not at first, no, because I was worried, he didn’t have my background.” That makes more sense, Tim thinks, but he doesn’t get long to feel relieved about it.

“If you care so much, then why weren’t at his funeral?!” Bruce roars, and Tim gives in to the impulse to cover his ears. 

Not that it helps as Dick roars over Bruce in return. “It was kinda hard to be there when no one bothered to even try to contact me about there being a need for a funeral in the first place!” 

Tim can feel his breathing speed up, can’t seem to get enough air no matter how much he gulps it in. He’s having another panic attack, he knows how to recognize them by now, but all he can think is that he needs to be quiet, or he’ll be found out. His vision blurs and distorts, and he closes his eyes, presses his hands tighter over his ears, and wills the sound of his blood rushing to go away. He needs to calm down, he needs to be silent. Or they’ll find him. That would be very very bad right now. Or just in general. In either case, Tim. Needs. To. Calm. Down. 

As the shouting continues to ring out behind and above him, Tim tries to remember what he read online about panic attacks. Step 1; breath deeply. That never works for him. He knows he needs to breathe deeply, he just can’t. Step 2; recognize the panic attack—check. Step 3; close your eyes to reduce stimuli—very much check. Now if only he could turn off his hearing as well. 

Bruce is saying something, growling it, and while Tim can’t hear what it is over the rushing in his ears, the tone still makes him flinch. Step 4; mindfulness. Tim presses his hands over his ears harder again, feels the pressure on his ears, his fingers in his hair. The grating of the fire escape pushes into his bottom through his jeans, and his shoes wrap softly around his feet. He pushes himself harder against the bricks at his back to feel them through his hoodie. He feels the strap of his camera at the back of his neck, and remembers step 5; find a focus object. That’s a bit more difficult, as it’ll require Tim to remove his hands from his ears and open his eyes. 

He tries taking a few deep breaths, holding them before releasing. They aren’t full breaths, and they catch a few times on the exhale, but they’re better than before. Tim carefully moves first one hand, and then the other, to his camera, and lifts it blindly. Then he carefully opens his eyes, and focuses on his old camera. It’s covered in scratches from his nightly escapades, and he starts mapping them all. He notes bits of dirt in some corners, and a new scratch on the flash he rarely uses. The conversation behind him has quieted somewhat, and he finds that he can tune it out as he focuses on his camera. He finishes his inspection of it, and lifts it to look through the viewfinder, points it at a random window, carefully brings it into focus by turning the lens. 

He nearly drops it when Bruce’s raised voice breaks through his carefully constructed calm. “—Where were you when Joker blew him up?!” Tim presses his hands back to his ears, feels the camera drop in his lap, and shakes his head as if that will dislodge the words and throw them back out of his head. He didn’t want to know that. He never wanted to know that. 

“I. WAS. IN. SPACE!” 

Silence rings over the rooftop after that. 

Tim fights to get back his earlier progress in breaking his panic attack, to get his breathing under control, to not make a sound. He moves one of his hands to cover his mouth instead, skipping straight to step 6; muscle relaxation. First, his fingers. He carefully moves the hand still covering an ear to his knee, opening and closing the fingers in a fist until he can do it without feeling the resistance of his tight muscles. He doesn’t want to move his other hand, so he lifts the fingers of that hand one by one, until he achieves the same result as before. Next are his wrist, underarms, and the rest of his body. 

Tension hangs in the air, thick enough to cut. After what feels like an eternity to Tim, who still isn’t in control of his breathing, but is at least making process on forcefully relaxing his body, one of the men on the roof heaves a heavy sigh. 

“I came here hoping that you’d act like an emotionally healthy human being for once, that maybe we’d be able to lean on each other to get through this,” Dick says, all the anger gone, replaced with a bone deep weariness, “It’s obvious I’m not welcome here. I’m sorry, B, for your loss. If you need me in Gotham, I’m a phone-call away.” 

Tim feels the tension slip away from him, expects the conversation to be over after that, but Batman proves him wrong. 

“I don’t know why I thought I needed a partner in the first place. You and Jason both just slowed me down, made me worry about you instead of the mission. Neither of you ever _ listened _ . _ You _ were lucky; I fired you before you could get hurt. Jason got himself killed with his stubbornness.” Where Dick seems to have deflated, Batman is still seething. Even when Dick tries to interrupt, calls his name, Batman bulldozes on. “I don’t need a partner, I never should have had one, and I _ never _ will again.” 

The _ click-swoosh _Tim has come to associate with grappling guns announces the departure of one of the dynamic duo, but he can’t tell which. In the following silence, he finally gets his breathing back under control. He still feels the edges of the panic attack looming, but he can at least move again. When he dares sneak a peek over the edge of the roof fifteen minutes later, he finds Nightwing in much the same position Tim had been in just a few moments before, his hands trembling, heaving big, gasping breaths. 

Tim’s breath, which he had just gotten under control, catches in his lungs at the sight, and the world seems to be closing in. Tim wonders if Dick knows what is happening, knows how to break out of it. Everything in him wants to go over to Dick, to help somehow, but he can’t. He’s not supposed to be here. He’s not supposed to know. And a little nerdy kid like him definitely has no useful help to offer someone like Nightwing. The best thing Tim can do now is leave Nightwing to grieve in peace.

Tim’s luck for the evening finally seems to run out. He desperately tries to be quiet as he climbs down the fire escape ladders. He’s so focused on trying to keep his breathing calm that he doesn’t notice how slippery the rungs have become in the humid night. He slips and can’t quite suppress a yelp as he falls. He just manages to catch himself on the bottom of the 2nd floor landing, his shoulders and hands screaming in protest, but he’s too far from the next ladder to reach for it. 

Tim freezes, holding his breath as best he can, hoping Nightwing didn’t notice. He knows before he hears the movement above him that it’s wishful thinking. 

“You okay down there,” comes the shout from above him, and against his better judgement, Tim looks up to see Nightwing leaning over the edge of the roof. “Shit, you’re just a kid. Hold on, I’ll come get you.”

No, no, no, nope. Tim is _ not _okay with this. Can’t let Dick see his face in case he recognizes him. He looks around him, trying to find a way to get down before Nightwing can make his way to him. He’s been doing this for years, it’s not like he needs Nightwing in order to get down safely. He spots a pile of garbage bags, not quite below him, but if he can swing…

Tim swings a few times to gain momentum, sneaks a peek up to see Nightwing making his way down the ladders. He lets go and tucks himself in, rolling onto and off of the garbage, and then breaking into a run out of the alley he’s in. He can hear Nightwing shouting after him, but he doesn’t dare look back. He melts into the night crowd, ducks into the first 24 hour convenience store he sees, and ducks behind the shelves. He tugs off his hoodie, craming it into his backpack, and stuffs his backpack into one of the plastic bags from the store. 

After he takes the time to properly calm his breathing, he buys some generic foods, including some chocolate (not part of the steps, but he read somewhere you need to eat something sweet to feel better after a panic attack). He sells the clerk a story about running errands for a sick parent, and melts back into the crowd. 

-

Just thinking about it again makes Tim’s breath catch, and his vision narrow. He drops to the ground, grabs his knees, and focuses on breathing, trying to make his exhale as long as his inhale.

“I… I had a panic attack while listening to them,” Tim whispers to his knees, “Just like the ones I get sometimes when mom and dad are fighting.” 

_ In. Hold. Out. In. Hold. Out. Come on, Tim, focus. _

“They were both so angry, Jason. Aren’t they family? Aren’t they supposed to stick together?” That’s what the families on TV do, don’t they? 

Tim remembers the chocolate he bought earlier, and digs it out of the bag at his side. Slowly, he opens the wrapping, folding it out, and then breaking a single block off before popping it in his mouth. He moves it around his mouth, tasting the sweetness, feeling the texture, forces his shoulders to relax as he thinks on what else he remembers hearing despite the panic attack, what else bothers him about what he heard.

“Dick said he wasn’t even told you were gone, how can they not tell your brother what happened to you?” 

How can Bruce think Dick and Jason didn’t get along? That’s something that confuses Tim beyond belief. How can he think that they weren’t brothers? Tim’s only seen them together a couple of times, but they never seemed anything but brotherly. Once, he even spotted them doing something that looked suspiciously like a game of tag on rooftops in an online clip of the Titans. Bruce is the best detective in the world, how can he not know that Dick and Jason were close? 

Sure, Dick teased Jason sometimes, but isn’t that a brotherly thing to do? Tim doesn’t know, of course, he’s never had a sibling, or a cousin for that matter, but he’s sure what he witnessed was good natured teasing. 

-

Tim always takes the bus home from school. Mrs. Mac doesn’t like driving in the city, and it’s a waste of money to hire a driver just to get him to and from school. Ever since Jason started going to Gotham Academy, waiting for the bus is one of Tim’s favorite times of the day. Because Jason always gets picked up by Mr. Pennyworth around the same time, right next to the bus stop. 

Well, almost always. Sometimes, about once a month, Dick Grayson comes to pick Jason up instead. 

Today is one of those days. As Tim walks up to the bus stop, he can see Dick leaning against his bike. Hands in his pockets and two helmets hanging from the handles. Despite the fact that it’s early January, the sky is a rare, clear blue, and Dick’s wearing a pair of sunglasses. Tim wonders if they won’t get cold riding the bike in the middle of winter. He himself is certainly wishing he’d thought to bring his scarf and gloves along this morning. He reaches the bus stop, buries his hands deep in his pockets, and hunches as deep in his coat as he can, settling for the long wait for the bus. 

He mentally goes over his plan for the day. Mrs. Mac will be there for dinner, as usual. Then he has an essay to finish for history. The rest of his homework he’s already finished at school. He has some film he wants to develop in the early evening before going out, though he can only do that if the new photographic development fluid he ordered has arrived. 

“Ugh. Shut it, Dickhead!” Tim is shaken out of his thoughts by Jason’s loud complaint, and Dick’s signature cackle. 

“Aw, little brother, but you look so cute when you’re angry.” Tim glances over from the corner of his eyes, sees that Dick is wearing a shit-eating grin, and that Jason is scowling, just a hint of a blush high on his cheeks. “You know you don’t scare me with that glare, Jay, you always end up making me think of angry kittens, complete with puffed up tail and everything.” 

Tim can kind of see it, especially considering that, when Jason’s eyes narrow a bit further, his blush also deepens. 

Dick heaves a big, obviously faked, sigh. “Why don’t you go say ‘hi’?” he asks. 

Jason grumbles something Tim can’t quite make out. Dick laughs again (seriously, Tim can see why that used to creep the baddies out) and says, “Well, how do you expect to get closer to your crush if y—” 

Jason jumps up to cover Dick’s mouth with both his hands. “Could ya be any louder? Shut up!” 

What Dick says next is too muffled by Jason’s hands to hear, but it sounds vaguely apologetic, and also a lot like teasing. Tim’s ears burn a little, and he ducks even further into his coat. Jason has a crush on someone? And he’s scared to go talk to them? That doesn’t seem very much like Jason. 

“I’ve told you over and over, it’s not a crush.” For someone who just told his brother to quiet down, Tim thinks Jason’s being rather loud. Maybe there’s some truth to what Dick said after all. He wonders who could catch the eye of Robin.

“Yeah, sure, then why is your face red, little brother?” Tim’s seen interactions like this enough by now to have realized Dick can be, well, a dick sometimes, though the first time he witnessed it, he was a bit shocked. He’s right, though, Jason’s face is getting steadily redder. 

“It is _ not _ ,” Jason counters, though Tim thinks he probably knows that’s not true, “you, just, ugh. Can we _ please _just go?” 

Dick chuckles and ruffles Jason’s hair, much like Jason did to Tim just a week ago (Tim has a stray thought about karma), to which Jason groans. “Alright, alright. Sorry,” he says as he grabs the helmets from the handles of his bike and hands one to Jason. Tim doesn’t think he sounds very sorry, but he seems to have had his fun. “It’s too cold for ice cream, so hot chocolate or chili dogs?” 

Because Jason is pulling the helmet on, Tim doesn’t hear the answer, he does hear the ‘Duh’ he adds to the end. 

-

“That’s the last time I saw you and Dick together.” Tim tells Jason. “Actually, that’s the last time I saw Dick at all before tonight.” 

The night has become more foggy, and Tim can feel the water sticking to the grass soaking his pants. The pressure from his chest is finally lifting, and he smiles a bittersweet smile. “I wonder if that’s the last time you saw him, too.”


	4. Forgotten Birthdays And Perfect Pictures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“My birthday was yesterday,” Tim whispers, “I’m fourteen now.” _
> 
> Tim wishes he could tell Jason his birthday was everything he hoped it would be. Thankfully he does have some good birthday memories as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! 
> 
> New chapter today. Gotta say, I'm stoked with the responses I've been getting! It's so nice to see what people think of your work.  
I struggled a bit with this one, but I think it turned out decent, so I hope you enjoy it, and let me know what you think ^^. 
> 
> As before, thanks to njw for the read over ^^.

Late spring turns into summer, and Tim keeps visiting the cemetery. Sometimes once a week, sometimes twice. Nightwing goes back to San Francisco, Batman keeps getting worse. 

Bruce Wayne looks increasingly haggard, if he appears in public at all, and even the media is starting to catch on. Tim’s sure headlines such as ‘_ Bruce Wayne; mental breakdown after losing adoptive son in car accident?’ _ don’t help the situation at all. Tim doesn’t know what to do, other than helplessly watch as his hero goes down a dark path, and he fears where it may lead.

After the fight he witnessed between Batman and Nightwing, he’s come to a shocking conclusion. Or maybe had an epiphany is the better way to put it. 

Tim’s realised his heroes are human. And while he always knew that Batman was Bruce Wayne, and that Nightwing was Dick Grayson, he didn’t _ know _ it. Bruce Wayne, who has flaws like any grown man. Dick Grayson, who has fears and insecurities like any young adult. A stray thought points out that Jason must have had flaws, too, and that Tim will never get the opportunity to figure out what they were for himself. That particular line of thinking gets shoved into a dark corner of his mind with fervor, left to be (hopefully) forgotten. 

The point is that Batman isn’t perfect, is a mortal man, and Tim’s convinced that something vital is missing in the equation, causing Batman to be unbalanced. 

The obvious answer is Jason. Jason is dead, and so Batman no longer has Robin, which leaves a big gaping hole. But how can the equation be balanced without disrespecting Jason? 

Tim is drawing a blank and as usual, the grave can’t give him any answers. 

On a warm, sunny day, only a few fluffy clouds in the sky, Tim sits on the grass in front of the grave, fiddling with his lily. He’s been there for almost half an hour already, talking about this and that. He’s been avoiding the topic he needs to talk about. The reason he came today. 

“My birthday was yesterday,” Tim whispers, “I’m fourteen now.” 

-

His parents aren’t home on his birthday, but of course Tim had known that in advance. Still, he gets up early. They always call him on his birthday, first thing in the morning. He hadn't gone out the night before, so he wakes up a little easier than he normally does. He makes himself breakfast (a sandwich with juice), and sits down at the breakfast table, his mobile phone ready next to him as he skims the Bat watcher websites on his tablet for news.

Tim frowns as he reads about the sightings of the night before. The amount of criminals brought to the hospital instead of the police precinct after they were found tied up is getting higher. Batman is not getting better. 

As he reads, he periodically glances at his phone, checks if the sound is on every five minutes or so.

Strange, normally they would have called by now.

Tim waits until the very last moment to leave for school on his bike, and hooks up his bluetooth headset, just in case they call while he's on the way to school.

He has to run to make his first class, and his parents still haven't called. He gets an uneasy feeling about it, but he tries to ignore it as his classmates congratulate them, and ask him if they're still on for Sunday. Tim forces himself to smile, and confirms his whole day is wide open for them. The smile turns real when they inform him they have a special birthday campaign planned for him.

During his classes, he keeps glancing at his phone under his desk. So much so that his teachers threaten to take the phone away from him unless he put it away. Tim apologizes, and the uneasy feeling returns.

They hadn't forgotten about him, right?

They'd never forgotten before.

During lunch, Tim goes back to looking at his phone, to the point where Ives notices. "Dude, you're usually not that stuck to your phone, what gives?" he asks when Tim pulls it out of his pocket for the umpteenth time in ten minutes.

Tim grimaces, and shrugs. "My mom was supposed to call me this morning, she hasn't yet." He tries, really tries to act nonchalant about it, but if the look on Ives' face is anything to go by, he's not very successful.

"They in a dangerous area right now?" Ives asks, and Tim shrugs.

"Zanzibar, last I heard. Not any more dangerous than most other places they've been to. I'm just worried something went wrong at the dig."

A lie, a big big lie. But Ives doesn't need to know how unsure Tim is in his relationship with his parents.

"It's probably nothing. She'll call when she has time." Ives doesn't look convinced, but he gets the hint and lets it go. Even does Tim the courtesy of changing the topic for him.

"So about Sunday, we were thinking..." Tim smiles, and lets Ives ramble on about the game-day they have planned. For the rest of the lunch break, he doesn't think of his parents at all.

The worry returns during the second half of his classes, but he manages to get by without getting himself in trouble by telling the little voice in his head screaming that his parents might miscalculate and accidentally call during school time to kindly go shove it. His mother is smarter than that, wouldn't disgrace herself, and Tim, by making a mistake like that.

It's that thought that allows him to leave his phone in his pocket for the rest of the school day.

The moment the bell rings for his last class, his phone is in his hands, and he's setting up his bluetooth headset again as he practically runs for his bike.

On the way home, he remembers that his mom promised him a camera for his birthday, told him she'd order the one he'd been looking at online for him, and have it delivered on his birthday.

Which means it may have already arrived by now.

He gets a little excited again, and rides his bike just a little faster than he usually does. Mrs. Mac also always comes earlier on his birthday so she should be there as well. 

The house is empty when he arrives, and while the normal mail has arrived, there is no delivery attempt notice. Tim calls out for Mrs. Mac, but her car wasn’t in the driveway, so he knows she’s probably not here, unless her car broke down and she came with the bus. 

There’s no answer, and he lets his shoulders sag, lets go of the perfect posture his mother is so insistent on. Whatever, it’s not like she’s here to see it. 

He makes his way over to the kitchen to get himself a drink, and then sits at the kitchen table to do his homework. Normally, he does that in his room, but he doesn’t want to risk missing the doorbell if his present gets delivered. He also turns his phone volume all the way up, and doesn’t listen to music like he normally does. 

His math problems go much slower than usual, mostly because Tim keeps checking whether he has signal on his phone. At some point he even needs to go grab his charger because the battery is running low. 

The further the afternoon continues, the worse Tim feels. He keeps telling himself his mother wouldn’t forget, that she’d call him at some point. He stops believing it at around half past five. 

At six, the doorbell rings, and Tim nearly trips over his own feet in his rush to get the door. 

It’s a delivery man with a package, but it’s not for Tim, it’s for the neighbours. Tim politely directs the man to Wayne manor. Then he inquires if there really is no package for his address, and after the delivery guy checks his van and confirms there really is nothing addressed to him, Tim smiles and thanks the man, before closing the door. 

He leans his back against the door and takes a couple deep breaths. 

“Okay Tim,” he says out loud. “No need to be ridiculous about this. You’re not enough of a materialistic douchebag to get upset over not getting a present.” 

He makes his way back to the kitchen and goes to finish his homework, still constantly checking his phone in between problems. Half an hour later, he gives up on the rest of his homework. It’s Friday and he has the rest of the weekend to finish it anyway. He’s too distracted to do it now. When Tim’s gaze passes the kitchen clock,he frowns. Almost a quarter to eight, and Mrs. Mac still isn’t here. Did he forget she had a free day or something? He doesn’t think so.

Maybe he’ll call her to ask if she’s okay, just in case.

Either way, Tim should eat something. Even if he doesn’t feel much like eating at all. He grabs some leftovers from earlier that week from the fridge, and moves them to a plate so he can reheat them in the microwave. He’s about to put the plate in the microwave when his mobile phone rings. 

Tim rushes to grab it, and barely takes the time to confirm it’s his mother calling before he connects the line. 

“Hi, mom,” he greets her happily. 

“Hey sweety,” his mom says, “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” 

Tim smiles, “Of course not, just getting ready for dinner.”

“Ah good. Can you do something for me, Timothy?” 

Tim frowns, she knows he doesn’t like it when she calls him that, and usually only does it when other high-society is near. 

“Of course, mother.” 

“I need you to go to my study and grab something for me there.” Tim is already making his way out of the kitchen, food forgotten. Did she already have the gift delivered and hidden there? Tim is starting to feel a little giddy again. “You remember how to open the safe right?” 

Tim falters. The safe? Only mother, father, and Tim know how to open that, how could she have put it in there?

“Timothy?” 

“Sorry, yes mother, I remember,” Tim makes himself say, “I’m nearly there.” 

As he goes through the protocol to open the safe in his mother’s study, he can hear her talking to someone else. 

“It’s open,” Tim says. 

“Right, there’s a folder labeled contract drafts in there, Timothy, I need you to fax the one labeled LCDI305 to me, can you do that?” 

Tim pulls out the contract and walks over to the fax machine on the other side of the room. “What number does it need to go to?” 

His mother reads a set of numbers, which Tim repeats back to her. When he’s sent the fax, he carefully puts the contract back into the folder, and puts it back into the safe. He worries his lower lip for a second before asking. “Did something go wrong at the excavation?” 

His mother laughs. “No dear, what could possibly make you think that?” 

Tim wants to yell, ‘What about my birthday?!’, but he doesn’t. Clenches the hand not holding his phone into a fist. 

“No reason, how have you been?”

But he’s lost her attention. “What was that? Sorry dear, I’m in an important meeting, the fax has come through. Thank you, sweety, I’ll call you again soon.” 

Tim doesn’t manage to answer her before she hangs up. He very pointedly doesn’t think about anything as he makes his way back to the kitchen, where the microwave is still open with his meal. Tim closes the appliance with more force than strictly necessary, and jams the button until it starts heating. He doesn’t acknowledge the tears that have been streaming down his face until he sees them dropping into the cutlery drawer. 

He shoves it closed and steps backwards until he hits the fridge. 

“They forgot,” he whispers. Saying it out loud breaks his last vestige of control, and he lets out a sob. 

And another one, and another.

His own parents forgot his birthday. That doesn’t happen to normal kids, right? 

Tim lets himself slide to the floor, doesn’t feel like his legs can support him anymore. 

Something must be wrong with him, right? Because he hasn’t talked to his mother in almost a month, hasn’t seen her in two. He hasn’t spoken to his dad for longer. So, if even his parents don’t want to see him, there’s got to be something wrong with Tim. 

After all, he’s fourteen now, and he’s bawling his eyes out like a toddler, so maybe that’s why his parents can’t stand to see him, or even talk to him. Or maybe it’s because Tim didn’t talk to enough people during the Christmas gala? Or because he had an A- on that one history test? 

Tim doesn’t know how long he sits on the kitchen floor, crying his eyes out, and mentally listing all the reasons his parents must be unhappy with him. He doesn’t hear the front door open, or the voice that calls out into the house. 

He doesn’t even notice when Mrs. Mac switches on the light, and turns a shocked eye on him. He notices a shadow settling over him, though, and when he looks up, Mrs. Mac is crouching in front of him. His tears slow somewhat at the shock of seeing her.

“Tim, hon, what’s wrong?” she asks him gently. 

And that’s all it takes for him to start crying again. 

“They—” Tim has to stop to take a deep breath. “They forgot. It’s my birthday, and mom called, and all she talked about was work, and then she hung up on me and she forgot!” 

Mrs. Mac’s face falls. 

“Oh, Tim. Hon. I’m so sorry. Come on, let’s talk about this at the counter, no? I’ll make you something warm to drink.” 

She keeps gently coaxing him until he sits at the counter, and she places a warm mug of milk in his hands. 

They talk quietly for a bit, and Mrs. Mac asks him to explain exactly what happened with the phone call. Then she looks at him silently for a bit. 

“Would you like to give them a call now?” she asks him, and Tim’s eyes widen in shock, before he fervently shakes his head. 

“Would you like for me to call them?” 

“NO!” Tim shouts before he can stop himself. Even Mrs. Mac looks taken aback by his outburst, so he dials it back. “Please don’t call them. And _ please _ don’t tell them I was this upset. They’ll just be more disappointed in me!” 

Her face softens, and she places a hand on Tim’s wrist. “Okay, I won’t,” she says, and Tim believes her. 

Silence settles around them, and Mrs. Mac starts wandering around the kitchen. Tim doesn’t pay much attention to what she’s doing until she places a plate of slightly larger than usual cupcakes in front of him. All of them are decorated with a swirl of brownish cream. The one in the middle has a single lit candle on it. 

When Tim looks up to Mrs Mac, she says, “I am so sorry I wasn’t here when you came home from school today, Tim. I was planning to have this ready for you when you came in, but my granddaughter helped me bake the first batch, and she put salt in the batter instead of sugar, and I had to start over.” 

She looks a little embarrassed about it. “Happy birthday, Tim. I’m sorry it’s late.” 

-

“Mrs. Mac baked me a cake. Well, more like a bunch of cupcakes. But they were vanilla latte cupcakes, and they were really, really good.” While weak, Tim’s smile is genuine. Mrs. Mac is always nice to him, and apparently pays enough attention to him to know he loves coffee themed desserts. “Not as good as Mr. Pennyworth’s tiramisu, of course, but possibly the next best thing.” 

Tim knows Mrs. Mac is a good person, and she cares. Enough to worry about how much Tim eats and to always make his favorites on the rare occasion he asks for something. The only thing she won’t let him have is coffee, but while that annoys him (he’s sure he’d love the drink if he ever managed to get his hands on it. He doesn’t _ quite _ have the guts to walk into a cafe and order it), that’s probably another point in favor of her caring about him.. 

“She stayed and watched the newest episode of Doctor Who with me.” It’s one of the few science fiction shows she likes. She even introduced Tim to it, once upon a time. 

“I didn’t go out last night, wanted to make sure I was home in case mom or dad realized they’d forgotten, and called again.” Tim fights to keep the smile on his face, but he doesn’t think it works very well. “They didn’t, but they’re busy with work, I’m sure they’ll call when they have the time. And… and I’m sure the present mom promised me is just delayed at customs or something. There’s no way mom would forget something like that.” 

Tim carefully puts the lily down in front of him before clenching his fists. There is no need for him to be mad, or sad, or any of the other emotions that try to rise to the surface. He’s fourteen now, and it’s time he accepts that his parents are busy people. He has Mrs. Mac, and his friends at school. Tomorrow, he’s going over to Ives’ house, and they’ll play W&W. Ives hinted that the campaign his friends have written for his birthday is really cool, so Tim’s excited about that. 

So Tim doesn’t need his parents to come home, because he’s not lonely. And he doesn’t need fancy presents, because he has people that want to spend time with him, and on him. So he doesn’t need no new stinking camera. 

  


Right?

Tim clenches his fists further, and then consciously relaxes them, forces his shoulders down, and rolls them a few times to get the tension out. His camera bag rests against his right leg, carefully loaded with a new film roll. He’s heading over to Robinson Park after this, to take pictures during the day for a change. He carefully lifts the old camera out, slipping the strap around his neck out of habit. 

He fiddles with it a bit, but doesn’t make any move to take any pictures. That would be a weird thing to do in a cemetery, right?

“It’s amazing how good the pictures of this camera still come out. I thought they’d be all blurry and dark. Maybe I’ve gotten better at it.” Tim turns the camera this way and that, looking at each of the scratches, remembering how they got there. 

“I guess it shouldn’t surprise me, this camera gave me my first good picture of you, after all.”

-

Little Timmy climbs extra carefully up the ladder leading to the roof of the building he chose for the night. His new treasure is hidden in his backpack, and he’s eager to try it out. He was so excited by the prospect of finally getting non-blurry pictures of his heroes that he didn’t even mind when mom and dad had to leave to catch their flight right after his birthday dinner. 

It’s a rare, clear night, but there are no stars out. Tim read in a book that you can’t see the stars in the city because of something called ‘light-pollution’. He thinks there might be a little truth to it. Even from his parents’ house up in Bristol, he can’t see very many stars, but he can see the haze that lies over Gotham in the night. 

He peeks over the edge of the roof and when he sees that it’s empty, he climbs over the edge. He walks over to the other side, where he has a good view of both the streets below, and the buildings around him, while standing in the shadow of a big advertisement board. 

Tim carefully takes his heavy backpack off and puts it on the roof beside him. He slowly opens it, thankful for the nightly noises of Gotham that cover the sound of the zipper. 

His new camera is everything Tim could have wished for and more. With three different lenses he can put on, adjustable shutter speed, aperture, and appropriate settings for the medium ISO stock he needs to shoot nice pictures without using a flash while still making them sharp. 

He’s already loaded it with his film stock at home and snapped a few practice shots, though he has no idea if they turned out okay. 

Tim settles in for the night, using his binoculars to look around, and even snaps a few shots of his view when the fancy strikes him. He’s starting to think the night is a bust when he sees motion on the edge of his vision. He turns and squints through the binoculars at the edge of one of the roofs on the other side of the street. 

It’s the new Robin. 

Tim lets out a soft squeak of excitement. He hasn’t gotten a single good picture of the new Robin yet, even though he’s been around for months now. When the old Robin disappeared, he’d been confused at first, until he read that Dick Grayson had left for college. He’s also seen a couple of grainy photos of a new Teen Titans member on the internet (Tim is really starting to like computers, so handy). Or is it Titans now? Tim’s a bit confused on that part. He’s sure this new guy calling himself Nightwing is Dick Grayson, though. Only he could pull of the hideous atrocity that man is wearing. 

When Bruce Wayne adopted Jason Todd, Tim had started waiting for a new Robin to show up. Because Jason Todd would make a perfect Robin, he was sure of it. 

It took six months, but when the new Robin made his big debut, Tim couldn’t stop smiling for a whole week. He didn’t have any proof that Jason was the new Robin, of course, but he was sure he was right. 

Tim’s wasted complete rolls of film stock trying to get a proper picture of the brazen new Robin, always wearing a grin. No luck yet. 

Tonight might be his chance though. Tim replaces his binoculars with his camera, and takes three pictures before he even notices that Robin is staring intently into an alley below. An alley from which the sounds of a fight are starting to emerge. 

When Tim looks back at the ledge where Robin was, he’s gone, and Tim thinks he’s lost him until he spots him crouching on top of a lamp post, right in front of the alley entrance.

His back is towards Tim now, and Tim knows better than to try to take a picture like this. But if there’s going to be a fight on the street....

Tim lowers his camera, and raises the shutter speed. Then he waits some more, watching for the moment Robin will move. 

The moment comes when a crook tries to run out of the alley and doesn’t see Robin at all, running right below him. Robin shifts when the crook is nearly below. He jumps backward in a back handstand/backflip hybrid that allows him to grab onto the light he’s been sitting on, and gives him the momentum to kick the crook right as he passes by, causing him to fall down.

Robin swings two more times before letting go of the lamppost, tucking and twisting so he lands on the other side of the crook in a wide stance with his fists planted in his sides, then he smirks. 

“Your move, ya dirtbag.” 

Tim’s lost count of how many pictures he’s taken in the last five seconds. He doesn’t even attempt to count how many he takes during the rest of the fight. 

As soon as the fight is over and the coast is clear, Tim rushes home. Usually, he waits to develop his pictures until the next weekend day, but this time he’s too impatient. He only pauses to take a quick shower and brush his teeth before he makes his way to his darkroom in his pajamas. 

Tim gets only two hours of sleep that night, and wakes up too late to see how the pictures turned out. He’s antsy the whole day, unable to focus on his classes to the point where even his teachers notice. Luckily, he’s usually a good student, so they let him off with a warning. 

When Tim gets home, he rushes to the darkroom, not even bothering to do his homework first. He sets up his projector so he can see whether any of the negatives turned out well enough to print. 

The first few test photos and the ones Tim took while waiting are okay, but not great. He flips through them, only looking long enough to note changes he would need to make if he were to use the camera more. 

When the first photo of Robin on the roof pops up, Tim gets more excited. This is it. Will he finally have a nice, clear picture of the new Robin? 

Apparently not. The shots of Robin on the rooftop are all too dark; even in the negatives, Tim can see that. Of the actions photos most are too blurry, and Tim quickly loses hope of a nice, sharp picture. There’s one shot of Robin swinging from the lamppost, kicking the crook in the face, that looks like it might be decent, but that’s about it. He flips through the rest without much hope of finding another good one. That is, until one picture makes him stop in his tracks. 

As Tim stares at it, a grin slowly spreads over his face.

Two hours later, he has two color prints in his hand. The one where Robin is swinging turned out pretty good after all, but it’s the other one that Tim’s excited about. 

Robin, standing in the light of the lamppost, stance wide, fists planted in his sides, and the cockiest grin Tim has ever seen on his face. The background and the crook on the ground are blurry, but that’s alright. It’s great even, because it brings the focus where it matters. Robin’s likeness is razorsharp, and while the colors lean a bit towards the orange side, Tim feels that only adds to the print. 

He finally has his picture of the new Robin. 

It’s his favorite picture yet. 

-

“It’s still one of my favorite pictures of you, you know.” Tim smiles as he thinks of it. “That was on my eleventh birthday, and I was so happy that I got it. That’s when I started making the photo-books, I think.” 

He puts the camera back in his bag, and picks up the lily again.

“I would take them with me and show you sometime, but I can’t let those leave my room. Too much sensitive information, right? And it’s not like you can look at them anymore.” 

Tim frowns, and slowly turns the lily between his fingers. 

“I miss you,” he says, resolutely not looking up at the grave. “I know we didn’t know each other that well, but I miss you.” 

Tim takes a deep breath. 

“I take the bike to school now, because I couldn’t stand not seeing Mr. Pennyworth waiting to pick you up. I don’t eat lunch outside anymore, because you’re not eating your lunch there. I keep wishing I’d talked to you more. Talked to you at school like we did at the gala. I wish I’d tried to be your friend.” 

“I’m older now than you were in that photo, but even then you were so much braver than I could ever be. You were so good, Jason, not just with the Robin thing, but in general.” 

Tim falls silent, turns the lily over again. 

“I want to help somehow, to be brave like you. But I don’t know how to do that. What can I do? I’m just Tim, and the biggest thing I ever did was figure it all out. But I’m sure lots of people with the info I had could have done that, so there’s nothing that makes me special.”

Tim stands up. 

“But I’ve got a good head on my shoulders. I’m smart. I can figure out a way to help Bruce, I just have to watch him really closely, and I’ll figure it out eventually. I always do.” 

Tim turns, and leaves. 

He doesn’t notice the shadow moving underneath one of the trees nearby. 


	5. Gunshot Wounds And Teamwork Talks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Jason, I have to say. Your dad is an idiot. A complete and total idiot."_
> 
> Tim is forced into a situation he never expected or wanted to find himself in. Who better to rant to than the son of the man to blame for it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! Not much to say this time other than enjoy!
> 
> As always, thanks to the amazing njw for the beta ^^

A little over a week after Tim's birthday, he finds himself racing towards the cemetery on his bike in the middle of the night. It's a cloudy, humid night, and Tim knows there's a storm incoming. He left his camera home because of it.

Batman was worse tonight, much much worse, to the point where Tim doesn't even bother locking his bike. He just throws it at the ground, tries not to look at the evidence of what just happened sticking to the skin of his hands, and runs through the lanes towards Jason's grave.

Which... Looks completely different from a week ago?

Tim looks around and at the new grave again to make sure he ran to the right spot, which he did. 

The headstone has been replaced. Where before there was just a simple marble stone, now, there is a complete angel statue. Tim stops and stares at it, trying to process the change. 

What the frag?

It could be minutes, it could be seconds, but eventually, Tim tears his gaze away from the angel and looks down. The base the angel stands on has a text. "Here lies Jason Todd," Tim reads out loud, his voice disbelieving.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Tim doesn't cuss often, now it feels right. "All that effort? Replacing a temporary stone with a new one, and they still can't be bothered to acknowledge they loved you? Is it really so hard to tell someone to engrave the words 'beloved son and brother' or something on a piece of marble?"

Tim feels the irrational urge to grab a sharpie the next time he comes here, and write it on the stone himself.

It's only then that Tim notices the fresh flowers at the foot of the statue. Lisianthus, like the ones at the funeral. Bruce was here, then. It explains why he’s acting like he is.

A familiar calm settles over Tim. Familiar, not because it ever happened to him before, but because he's seen it countless times in his mother. "Jason, I have to say. Your dad is an idiot. A complete and total idiot." Tim is seething, but his voice is calm, cold even. "He finally decides to visit his son when the new headstone is placed, and instead of going home and grieving like a normal human being, hell, or even going out and kicking ass like the terror he likes making himself out to be. He goes and gets himself shot."

-

Tim is riding his bike to his planned spot for the day when he hears it. The telltale sounds of yelling and clanging that come with a fight. The slight note of fear in the voices he hears tells him that this is not a normal fight between gangs.

He parks his bike, taking the time to lock it and chain it to a pole, before he sneaks into the next alley over. He makes his way up to the roof and, once he’s up there, crosses over to the other side and carefully peeks over the edge. Batman is fighting a large group of thugs, but from the way they are yelling at each other, they're honestly confused as to  _ why  _ he targeted them.

“What the hell’s he doing here? We weren’t doing nothin’!” A short man wearing a beanie near the back yells, his hands up in a semi-surrendering way. 

Another man, taller, but not necessarily heavier, and with hair blond enough to see it in the dark, is thrown into a wall and groans as he slides to sit on the ground. “Does it matter, Chris? He hits us, we hit back.” 

“You mean, we  _ try _ to hit back, right?” The only woman in the group sneers. Her hair is falling from her high ponytail and she’s holding her right shoulder with her left hand. “Nah, I agree with Chris, if we’re gonna have our asses handed to us, I’d like to know why.” The last part is said slightly louder, and is obviously directed at Batman. 

He doesn’t react, ducking and punching another thug. 

The blond man struggles to stand up, and then looks over at Chris the beanie guy. “Well, you gonna help out, or what?”

Chris takes another step backward, slowly shaking his head. "No, man. I don't want no trouble, I just got out,"

The woman has turned to look at the fight, and doesn’t take her eyes off it as she says, "I didn't even know you were in, what did they get you for?"

"Not jail, the hospital. I just got out of the hospital."

That grabs the woman’s attention, and she turns her back to the slowing fight. “Huh, I didn’t know ‘bout that, did you know about that, Lou?” 

The blond shakes his head. “Nah, I didn’t hear anything ‘bout no hospitals. What ha— Oh, shit, Linda, watch out!” Lou calls out but he’s too late. 

Linda turns right in time for Batman to grab her right arm, and she screams as he twists it behind her, uncaring for her obvious injury. He uses his free hand to smack her head into a nearby wall. When he lets her go, she crumples to the ground. 

At this point, Tim notices that Chris and Lou are the only thugs left standing. Chris lets out a whimper, and shakes his head again. “Look, man. I’m still recovering from the last concussion you gave me. Any chance we can skip all that, and you just tell me what you wanna know?” 

Batman stills for a second, seeming to think something over, before answering. “No.” 

Chris seems to lose his last bit of nerves at that. “Oh screw this,” he says, and he turns to run. 

He doesn’t make it far before Batman shoots some sort of grappling hook at his legs, which twists around them and trips him up. 

Tim watches in horror as the one man that hadn’t made a single move on Batman curls in on himself, arms folded protectively around his head before Batman lays in on him. 

His eyes are glued to the image of his hero beating an injured man who had already surrendered. 

He’s so focussed on what Batman is doing to Chris that he forgets about Lou. 

The ear-ringing bang of a shot fired reminds Tim, and just before he scrambles back from the edge of the roof, he sees one of Batman’s legs give out under him.

He crouches next to the low wall he was looking over before, closes his eyes and doesn’t look until he hears some more groans coming from down below. It takes a while but then Tim hears, “He’s gone. You okay, Chris?” 

Tim sneaks back to the edge, ignoring all the alarm bells that yell at him to get away from the vicinity of the gunfire. He sneaks a peek over the edge, and sees Lou crouching next to Chris. 

“Am I okay?” Chris asks, “Am I okay?! Dude! You shot Batman. If this is what he does to us when we do nothin’ wrong, what’s he gonna do now?” 

It occurs to Tim that someone shot Batman, and he feels his breath hitch. Is he okay? How did he get away so fast? How hurt is he?

Judging from the way he collapsed, he was shot in his leg. That could be bad. Tim googled it once; if your femoral artery is damaged, you can bleed out.

Before Tim can think about it, he finds himself scrambling to get to a higher building. He gets to the highest vantage point he can safely reach on the block he's in, and digs his binoculars out of his backpack to scan the other rooftops.

When he doesn't see anything right away, he pulls out his phone and opens the Bat watchers forum.

Nothing for the night yet.

Tim scans the rooftops one more time before he decides he's not going to get any answers this way. He's about to start making his way down when the unmistakable form of the Batmobile comes racing into the street below and turns into the next alley over.

Tim scrambles to the gap between the buildings he has to cross to get to the alley the Batmobile entered, judging the distance. It’s not too far, he thinks, and the building he’s jumping to is a bit lower than the one he’s on. Time to put his freerunning lessons to the test.He takes a few steps back so he can build momentum. As he runs, jumps, and rolls with the landing, he thinks he sees something moving a few roofs over, but the adrenaline in his system urges him on to the far end of the roof. 

By the time he looks into the alley below, he’s forgotten what he thought he saw. The Batmobile has parked itself, and the door is open. Batman is leaning against the building, slowly limping his way over.

"There is no need for this, Alfred," Tim can hear him say. He sounds annoyed.

He can't hear Mr. Pennyworth's response, but Batman grunts a few seconds later, so he must have said something.

Batman goes to grab something from the trunk of the car, but judging from the cussing, Alfred is remotely preventing him from opening it.

"This is ridiculous Alfred, I don't need to come back, I just need a quick patch so I can get back to patrol."

Tim can't see the wound very well in the dark, but he doubts it's so easily fixed. Batman is breathing heavily, and Tim can see his shoulders heaving in the effort to keep standing.

After another pause, in which he must get some sort of response. He slams his fist down onto the hood.

"Damn it, Alfred, just open the fucking hood!"

Nothing happens.

More silence follows, until Batman heaves a sigh. "Fine."

He makes his way to the open door on the driver’s side of the car, clutching his head, and grabbing the car for support.

Tim thinks he'll get in, close the door and drive off, but Batman doesn't seem to get that far. He manages to drop himself into the driver's seat, but he makes no further move to bring his legs into the car.

When half a minute waiting brings no difference, Tim starts climbing down into the alley using the fire escape on this side of the building.

He's not sure what he plans on doing, but he can't just leave Batman there to bleed out now, can he?

Tim pulls up his hood and closes the zipper of his jacket as far as it will go before approaching the Batmobile. As he comes closer, the light from the car gives him just enough visibility to see the dark patch on one of Batman's legs, slowly oozing more blood.

"That's... not good," Tim says to himself, and then, "Erm, Batman, sir? can you hear me? Can I help you somehow?"

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Tim can't believe he's doing this. After years of making sure Batman never saw him, he's approaching him on his own. Not that he's expecting Batman to suddenly come to, but you can never be too sure.

"Well young man, it would certainly seem like he could use some help, doesn't it?"

Who—?"

"Don't worry about that, now. I'm no one important." Tim frowns, the synthesized quality of the voice makes it harder, but he's pretty sure he's hearing Mr. Pennyworth through the car's speakers.

When Tim doesn't reply, the voice continues.

"Now Batman's predicament, however, is a matter of some urgency. You asked if you could help. Do you think you could follow some simple instructions?” 

Tim doesn’t take his eyes off the wound on Batman’s leg, but he manages to nod, and belatedly adds, “Yes, sir.” 

“Marvelous, is there anything I can call you?” 

Tim hesitates for a second, before saying the first name he can think of; “Peter.” 

He flinches. That’s not the type of name he should be using around the bats, and judging from the short pause on the other side of the line, it doesn’t go unnoticed. 

“Very well, Peter, go over to the trunk. You’ll find a first aid kit containing a number of high-end field dressings, take two of those out, please.”

Tim tears his gaze away from Batman in order to run to the back of the Batmobile, where the trunk opens just as he rounds the corner. The first aid kit is easy enough to find, and, with a little extra description from Mr. Pennyworth, so are the field dressings. 

He rushes back to Batman and, on Mr. Pennyworth’s instructions, checks for an exit wound. There is none. 

“Not to worry, my boy, we’ll get that out when he gets back. For now carefully take one of those dressings out of the packet and apply it over the wound. Don’t worry about the armour, it’s built to cover that.” 

Tim does as instructed, all the while trying not to think about the blood coating his hands. 

When he’s done, Mr. Pennyworth continues, “Be a good lad, and help him the rest of the way into the car, would you?"

Tim hasn't taken his eyes of Batman since he came back with the field dressings, and while a large part of him is thrilled to be helping his hero... "How’s that going to help? It's not like he can drive unconscious."

A light chuckle makes its way over the speakers despite the situation.

"Very astute observation, I suppose it's a good thing it has remote control then."

Tim wants to hit himself over the head; of course it has remote control, how else would it have gotten here in the first place, otherwise?

"Now, just move his legs into the car and close the door, and the car will be on its way."

Tim finds himself stepping forward, still hesitant. "But the wound, won't I make it worse?"

"Not any worse than just leaving him would be, I'm sure," is the immediate reply. "Do hurry, I'm afraid he's lost quite a bit of blood."

That prompts Tim into action, and with a bit of heaving, he manages to fit both of Batman's legs into the car.

Just before he closes the door, he hears. "Thank you, lad."

The car revs and drives off before Tim fully comprehends what he just did, but when he looks down and spots the blood on his hands, it crashes into him.

He's just helped Batman. Batman, who needed help because he got shot. A shot that Tim can't deny he provoked himself, could have easily avoided.

Tim stares at his hands just long enough to go through that line of reasoning two more times, and then sprints to get to his bike.

He doesn't stop sprinting until he stands before the angel.

-

Tim has taken to pacing in front of the angel while he talks through his evening. He wants to run his hands through his hair, but the blood is still there.

"I don't get it, Jason. Why would he do something like that? What is the point of beating someone that not only did nothing to provoke an attack, but has also already surrendered? He got absolutely nothing out of this!"

"That's not even starting on the fact that he wanted to continue the night. He was bleeding out! If I hadn't been there... If Mr. Pennyworth hadn't blocked his access to the trunk, what would have happened to him? Wasn't he always telling you to be aware of your limits? Doesn’t that also go for him?” 

-

Blue and red flashing lights surround the area when Tim arrives at the scene. A big enough fight took place at the Gotham City Bank that a wide perimeter is cordoned off by the police, and a crowd has gathered to see what is going on.

Tim bites his lip as he looks over the scene. The chances of Batman and Robin still being here are tiny, and with this crowd, the chances of him seeing anything are even smaller.

Still....

Tim looks around until he spots an alley he can duck into and circle back, maybe get a bit closer. He's in for a surprise though, and as he's making his way towards the fence at the end of the alley to get to the other side of the bank, the Batmobile drives into the alley and stops.

Tim dives behind a dumpster and watches in amazement as Batman lowers himself into the alley, carrying Robin. He places Robin gently on the hood of the Batmobile, and Tim feels a stab of worry when he notices Robin is clutching his ankle.

Batman crouches in front of Robin, looking up at the boy.

"Are you alright, Robin?" Tim feels his mouth fall open at the soft tone Batman is employing.

Robin shrugs, "I'm fine, just landed on it wrong. I'll do better next time."

Batman grunts and gently removes Jason's hands from his own ankle, inspecting it by turning it this way and that. Even Tim can see the nasty bruising already forming just above the edge of the pixy boot. Robin keeps his face neutral throughout the inspection, but flinches when Batman removes his boot and presses on the bone on the outside of his ankle.

"That's not fine, Robin. You may have broken your ankle." Robin looks down guiltily, but says nothing. When Batman stands up and turns to walk over to the trunk of the car, Tim can see his frown all the way from where he's watching.

He returns with a bandage, and crouches down again. He carefully removes one of Robin’s pixy boots before wrapping his ankle. Both vigilantes are quiet for a while.

"Jason, never downplay your injuries for me. We all get harmed in the field sometimes, I won't judge you for it. But if you push yourself beyond your limits and make any existing injuries worse, you endanger not only yourself, but any team members and civilians depending on you as well."

Batman pauses, seems to think something over before he continues. "Nightwing was talking about taking you to meet the Titans next month. One day, you might have a team of your own, so it's never too early to say this; communication is key."

Robin's eyes widen. "Really? He's taking me to meet the Titans? That's so cool!"

Batman smiles, and Tim finds himself smiling with him. "Yeah, and you don't still want to be injured when you meet them, right? So let's go back to the cave so you can recover.

Robin shakes his head fervently. "No! I can still patrol," he says, grabbing his boot from where Batman placed it on the hood of the car and pulling it back on.

Batman looks up, and places a hand on Robin's shoulder. “Robin, no. You’ve done enough for the day, and I want to take an x-ray of your ankle before you’re taking even a single step on it.” 

Robin pouts, and while it doesn’t seem to work on Batman, Tim can totally see it working on other people. “But B,” he starts saying, drawing the name out in a wheedling tone that’s just a shade off a full-on whine, but Batman isn’t having it. 

“No, Robin. Don’t make me repeat myself. Part of the job is knowing your own limits and strategically retreating when your physical or mental state calls for it. Right now, your ankle  _ will _ slow you down, and I won’t allow you to risk getting hurt further in order to impress me.” 

Robin’s face falls, but he doesn’t say anything more, just looks down at his knees. 

Batman watches him for a few seconds before heaving a sigh. He stands up, but instead of towering over the sitting Robin, he wraps his arms around him and pulls him into a hug. Robin goes with it willingly, wrapping his arms around Batman as best he can while still sitting on the hood of the Batmobile. 

“You did great tonight, Robin. You made the right call with the hostages and kept that little girl safe. I’m so proud of you.” 

Robin murmurs something into Batman’s chest, but Tim can’t make out what. It must be something funny, though, because it makes Batman chuckle a bit. 

“Language Jason. But I agree. So let’s go home, and maybe we can make Alfred feel sorry enough for you to let you have some cookies before bed.” 

Robin pulls back a bit, and frowns. 

“No names in the field,” he drones in a such a bad imitation of Batman that Tim has to slap his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing. “But yeah, let’s do that.” 

Jason makes to hop of the hood of the car before grimacing when his ankle hits the side. 

“Dad, can you help me into the car?” he asks, and Tim thinks he probably doesn’t notice the slight lag in Batman’s reaction before the gentlest smile yet creeps onto Batman’s face (Tim thinks it looks a bit odd to see Batman smiling like that). 

“Of course, Jay, of course.”

-

Tim stops mid-pace and stares at the angel.

"Actually, now that I think about it. For all that he wanted you to learn about teamwork, he's not being much of a teamplayer himself, is he?"

Tim gives in to the urge to run his hand through his hair, only to grimace as he remembers the blood.

"I wonder if he was always like that, or maybe he just forgot after what happened to you."

Tim thinks about the times he saw the police cuss and yell after Batman left a crime scene without warning, but also about the bat signal that lights up the night sometimes.

"He's certainly got a weird sense of teamwork, that's for sure," Tim concludes.

He starts pacing again as he goes over his evening once more in his head. Something about it bugs him beyond the normal sense of wrongness that has surrounded Batman for months now. Something Tim has been trying to identify for a while, but hasn't been able to get a bead on just yet.

He feels like he's close now, like it's on the tip of his tongue, just out of reach.

"Something needs to be done," Tim says slowly, sounding the words out.

"Batman needs help, the kind of help that Mr. Pennyworth obviously can't give him." He looks down at the flowers. Lisianthus, a way to say 'thank you' to the deceased, to show appreciation.

Tim stops and thinks about the man who chose that flower.

Bruce, the father who lost his son. Batman, the legend that seems to have lost his anchor. Both grateful for the time they had with the boy they lost.

Tim doesn't know what Bruce needs to continue on. To return to a semblance of his former self. But Batman? Maybe Tim can figure out what Batman needs.

Suddenly, Tim thinks back to something he heard Batman say almost a month ago.

_ I don’t know why I thought I needed a partner in the first place. You and Jason both just slowed me down, made me worry about you instead of the mission. Neither of you ever listened. You were lucky; I fired you before you could get hurt. Jason got himself killed with his stubbornness. I don’t need a partner, I never should have had one, and I never will again. _

The answer is so clear, Tim wonders how he hadn't seen it before. Because Batman was wrong, and Tim can’t believe he hasn’t seen it before. 

He still doesn't know what Bruce needs, he probably doesn't know the man well enough to ever guess.

But Batman?

"Batman needs Robin," Tim says, triumphant, a grin stretching over his face. "And I know just where to find one."

Tim turns and runs back to where he left his bike, half expecting it to be gone.

It's not.

It's exactly where Tim left it, and he picks it up and doesn't even look back as he starts making his way home as fast as he can. He doesn't see the three bodies in the bushes, nor does he notice the note that had been stuck to the bike before he picked it up.

He does read about the corpses found in Robinson Park a few days later, but he doesn't think much of it. He lives in Gotham, after all.


	6. Criminal Offences And Ice-cold Karma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I just don't know what to do anymore,” Dick eventually says, “everything feels different since Jason died.” _  
Tim goes to San Francisco with a mission, he doesn’t expect to get insight into Dick’s worries in quite the way it happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again!  
Sooo.... I noticed an inconsistency in my timeline while writing this chapter and planning the rest of the story, so I went back and changed one little thing in chapter four, nothing major, and I'll be really damn impressed if anyone finds it :P. 
> 
> The good news is, I've figured out how much longer the story will be, and can now tell you, if everything goes according to plan, we are now halfway through GraveRobbin'. I do have plans to continue afterwards, but it will be a new story as part of the series. 
> 
> As always, thanks to njw, for the beta!
> 
> Hope you guys'll enjoy this new chapter!

Tim drops the duffle bag and backpack that were his luggage in the grass seconds before sinking to the dry grass in front of the grave himself. He can feel the sun burning on the back of his neck, and the slight breeze does nothing to cool him down. 

It's okay, though; it had been even warmer in San Francisco, and Tim made sure to reapply his sunscreen before getting off the plane. His only stop between the airport and the cemetery had been his usual florist. 

“Well, that idea was a bust,” he says, torn between resignation and irritation. 

After his revelation the night Batman was shot (who was out again the very next night, the idiot), Tim decided it was time for drastic measures. Thankfully it’s the middle of summer vacation, and with a little creative internet usage, more commonly known as hacking, he easily booked himself a ticket to San Francisco. 

He sighs and leans back, looking at the bright blue sky. 

“I made it to San Francisco fine. Even found out where Dick lives fairly easily. The problems started when I discovered he wasn't home.”

-

Tim bites his lower lip as he rings the doorbell to the apartment one more time. He glances over his shoulder, eying the empty street with suspicion. He's been feeling watched the last couple of days, but whenever he looks behind him, there's no one there. 

It probably doesn't help that he's in an empty street in a strange city after dark. 

As happened the first four times he pressed the buzzer, there is no response. 

This is the third time Tim has visited Dick Grayson’s apartment, the third time no one appears to be home. 

He glances around the street one more time. 

Time for plan B. 

Tim walks a few blocks down the street before ducking into an alley. He reaches into his backpack and grabs his dark hoodie and leather gloves, which he hadn't worn before to avoid any weird looks in the warm weather, and shrugs them on. Then, he loops around through the backstreets until he comes up to the back of the building Dick lives in. 

Tim grabs his new tablet (bought using cash in a pawnshop with a prepaid internet plan) from his backpack and double checks the blueprint of the apartment complex he downloaded earlier. He confirms which window enters Dick's kitchen. 

Fourth floor, third from the left. 

He looks up and grins when that particular window opens to the landing of the fire escape as the blueprints indicate. 

The grin falters a bit when he sees the lowest ladder isn't dropped to street level. He looks around to find a way up before putting the tablet back into his backpack and lifting the hood over his head. 

This is fine. He's got this. 

Tim pushes a nearby trash container below the fire escape, and climbs it and pulls the ladder down. 

He goes through the effort of pushing the container back to its original position before climbing up to the fourth floor. 

Tim peeks into the dark room before attempting to open it, just in case someone is there after all. The kitchen is empty, and he doesn't spot any cameras, though those could be hidden. 

He leans against the bricks next to the window and takes a deep breath. 

“All right, Tim. You can do this. Just get in, leave the letter in a secure spot where Dick is bound to find it, and leave. It's just another criminal offense to add to the list.”

He mentally goes over the list and winces. In the last couple days, Tim has illegally purchased plane tickets for a minor, hacked a government agency, and illegally acquired official municipal records. 

Now, he will add breaking and entering to the list.

“No big deal, right?” Tim asks himself. He takes one last deep breath, and looks down to his gloved hands. 

“Right.”

He lightly tests the window to see if it's locked and shakes his head when it slides open soundlessly. 

“Honestly, Dick, ever heard of security?” he whispers to the dark. 

The kitchen is a mess. That's the only word Tim has for it. Dishes are scattered over the table and the countertop, the trash can filled to the brim, and a bunch of old newspapers is stacked haphazardly on one of the chairs. 

He freezes and waits for a minute, half expecting Nightwing to jump him from the shadows. When it doesn't happen, he silently makes his way through the open door to the slightly less messy living room. 

No cameras that he can spot there either, so Tim relaxes slightly. 

“Alright,” he whispers to himself, “if I were a well known vigilante needing to hide evidence of his slightly illegal occupation, where would I hide it?” 

He ignores all regular storage space, too easy for others to find. Behind wall decorations? He feels that would be a bit too much like something a cliché mob boss would do, but checks behind the framed pictures and the poster of the Flying Graysons anyway. 

Nothing. 

A peek behind the air vents doesn't reveal anything either, but as Tim huffs and sweeps his gaze over the room again, he notices something odd. 

He takes out his flashlight and shines it to the floor in front of the wall with the poster. 

There seem to be tracks in the dust on the floor, almost as if a giant door was opened and closed there. 

On a hunch, he traces his hands lightly over the wall until he feels it give a little. A slightly harder push causes some sort of mechanism to click before the entire wall swings towards him soundlessly, revealing a room that is positively sterile compared to the rest of the apartment. 

To one side, a computer sits on a desk, multiple screens opened to what look like case files, newspaper pages, as well as a video feed of the living room he just left. Hidden cameras then. Tim will need to decide if he wants to try deleting the footage. Since he’s counting on Dick coming to find him after reading the letter, there’s not much use in that.

Next to the desk is a workbench, a partly deconstructed electronic stick of some sort resting next to a microscope of some sort. The opposite wall holds a glass case where the Nightwing armour is on display, as well as racks of additional equipment.

“Well, this is cool,” Tim mutters to himself as he slowly enters the room further. He tries not to look at the case file open on one of the screens, though his curiosity is pulling him in that direction. 

After a moment, he frowns. “Wait a minute,” he says, pulling his tablet out again. “This room certainly isn't part of this apartment in the blueprint.” 

Dick must have bought the neighboring apartment as well under an alias. 

“Huh, guess I should have known Dan Danger wasn't a real name,” he muses while putting the tablet away and pulling out a letter addressed to Dick. 

He'll just place it on the keyboard of the computer and leave the way he came. 

Movement on the screen catches Tim's attention as he puts the envelope down, only to see Dick Grayson and Kory Anders walk down a hallway. 

“Shit shit shit.” He runs to the open door to the living room, intending to leave quickly, but as he steps one foot through the door, he hears the jingle of keys. 

In a moment of sheer panic, he grabs the edge of the door and closes it with himself in the secret room. 

Not even two seconds later, the front door opens, and Dick’s voice, while muffled, can be heard. 

A groan escapes Tim at his stupidity. Why did he think breaking into the home of a vigilante would be a good idea?

A frantic glance around the room for an alternative exit reveals a window at the end of the room which he hadn't noticed before. It’s covered by blinds, letting no light in. He's halfway through the room before it registers that he can hear the conversation through the speakers of the computer. 

“Do you truly have to leave, Dick?” Kory asks, and Tim has to suppress the inner fanboy who wants to marvel at the fact he’s in the same building as  _ Starfire _ . 

Wait a second, leave? Leave where? 

On the screen, he can see Dick running a hand through his hair and dropping onto the couch. 

“Yeah, I think I really have to. I need some time to get some perspective back.” he says, and Tim feels his heart sink. Dick can't leave! His plan depends on him, Tim can't do this without Dick! 

Kory keeps silent for a while, and Tim thinks she'll object, but. “If that is what you need, I won't object. But know that I love you and will miss you.” 

Dick smiles tiredly. “Thanks, hon.”

Silence lingers, and Tim wants to run into the living room and yell that Dick can't just leave like that, but he stands frozen, looking at the surveillance footage. 

“I just don't know what to do anymore,” Dick eventually says, “everything feels different since Jason died.” 

Kory sits down next to Dick and put a hand on his knee. “Have you talked to Bruce about this? Family should support each other in difficult times like these.” 

Dick rests his head on the back of the couch and looks up at the ceiling. “Not really,” he sighs. “That’s part of the problem, really. The night after we visited the grave, I went to talk to him, but I couldn’t enter the cave anymore. I tracked him down in Gotham, but that resulted in the usual shouting match.” 

The usual? Tim thinks back to that horrible night. Is that how Dick and Bruce always interact? He wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t heard them himself. 

“He pretty much told me that we’re not family, and that I’m not welcome anywhere near him.” Dick brings a hand up and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ve tried to call him a couple times since then, but my calls go to voicemail, and Alfred told me my emails get deleted without opening, and even the note I gave Alfred to give to Bruce was burned, apparently.” 

A short pause is punctuated by a long sigh, and Dick sits up, dislodging Kory’s hand so he can rest his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. “He’s shut me out, Kory, and I don’t think he has any intention of ever letting me back in.” 

His voice doesn’t quite break at the end of the sentence, but it does wobble a bit.

With shaking fingers, Tim picks the letter he left on the keyboard back up and pockets it. There’s no way he can leave it now. No way he can add more of a burden on Dick’s shoulders than is already there. 

That also means he can’t let Dick know he was ever here. 

He bites his lips in doubt for a second before bending over the desk and placing his hands on the keyboard. He half expects an alarm to go off, but there’s nothing, and so he starts going through the system, looking for the surveillance footage storage. 

It takes him about ten minutes, but he manages to loop the footage of just before he entered over that of him going through the living room. There don’t appear to be any cameras in the kitchen, so he doesn’t have to worry about that. 

As Tim closes the screens he used to erase the evidence of his presence, and re-opens the ones that had been opened before, his eye falls on a window titled ‘POI Bios’. There’s a picture of a white-haired man with a patch over one eye, and a description of his characteristics and abilities, as well as his common criminal activities. Codename; Deathstroke. There’s a list of other code names, some of which he recognises, to the left of the window. 

Curiosity wins over his need to leave, and he spends a while clicking through several of the files. Some of them, he knows. It’s hard to live in Gotham and not know who Poison Ivy and Scarecrow are. Some, he doesn’t. Names like Deadshot and Ra’s al Ghul mean nothing to him, but the description that goes with the latter in particular gives Tim shivers. Another name that stands out, if only because of how incredibly mundane it sounds, is Amanda Waller. 

Some names have additional info tagged to them, like retired, deceased or simply missing. It’s not just criminals in the list, either. All the Titans appear to have their own file, as well as members of the Justice League. Tim carefully doesn’t click any of those codenames, he knows too much as it is. 

Well, none until he spots Batgirl. But how could he resist when there was ‘incapacitated—retired’ behind her name? He’s wondered what happened to her ever since she stopped appearing about half a year ago. 

“Oh,” he whispers to himself the moment he opens the file and the information pops up, “That makes sense.” 

Of course Barbara Gordon can’t be Batgirl anymore, not from that wheelchair she’s confined to. 

“Dick, honey, did you leave the kitchen window open again?” 

_ Fuck.  _

Tim looks back at the screen with the living room footage in horror as Kory walks out of the kitchen. 

_ Code red. Abort.  _

He has just enough presence of mind to click back to Deathstroke’s profile before booking it to the window.

He janks the blinds up and sees that it opens into the same alley as the window he came in from. Which has a good chance of being watched now that the two occupants of the apartment noticed it was open. He also sees a thin wire running along the frame of the window, which leads to a small electronic box fixed to the wall. This window obviously  _ is  _ surveilled somehow.

“No. No, no.” He keeps repeating the word under his breath as he looks desperately for a way out of this situation. There's a good chance that some sort of alarm will go of the moment he opens the window, and he has no clue as to how to disable the device.

He runs over to the cabinet of gear he spotted earlier and yanks one of the grapnels from its shelf. Then he considers cutting the wire with one of the batarang type blades before opening the window, but he decides he has no time for that.

He runs back to the window, takes the time to study the grapnel for just a second, hoping beyond all hope this thing is just point and shoot, and then opens the window.

A beep sounds behind him, and as he climbs out the window, he sees one of the computer screens light up red. No time to worry about that now, though, so Tim shoves the window closed, takes a step to the side so he’s not in view from inside the room, and points the grapnel gun at a ledge above him before pulling the trigger.

It grabs on, and with a hard pull, he tests how sturdy it is before taking a giant leap of faith and jumping off the fire escape while holding on to the gun-like device attached to it. With the push of a button it starts lowering him into the alley.

The moment he lands, Tim presses the other buttons until one of them causes the grapple to detach from the ledge and retract.

Tim very pointedly doesn't think of what would have happened if he had pressed that particular button as he jumped.

He realises his mistake as he looks around for the nearest exit of the alley. Both are way too far to make before Dick comes out that window.

Instead, Tim does the stupidest thing he can think of, and opens the nearly trash container and jumps right in, closing the lid over his own head.

The smell is overwhelming, but he pinches his nose and breathes through his mouth.

He listens for any sort of sound for a long time, but he knows just how quiet Nightwing can be if he wants to.

After a few minutes, though, he does hear something.

"Did you find anything up there?" Dick asks someone, probably Kory.

"No, if they went up, they are either fliers, and very fast ones at that, or they went invisible for some reason," Kory answers, "Anything down here?"

"Nothing, besides the fact that someone lowered the fire escape ladder." Dick says. He sounds like he's analysing as he goes. “Probably used that garbage container over there. I don't think we're dealing with a flier. They wouldn't have needed to do that otherwise, and they also took a grapple."

Kory hums before saying, "I did find an impact scratch of a grapple up near the ledge. But I thought maybe you could have made that."

"I tend to aim at the fire escapes, doesn't leave scratches and attaches better." Dick answers distractedly.

"So the question remains, did they go up or down?"

Tim holds his breath as the voices drift closer and closer.

"Who knows? Whoever they are, they are long gone." Dick says. "And there's a good chance they know way more than I'm comfortable with."

"Do you want me to call the others? I'm sure we can figure this out together."

"Nah, I'll work this on my own. Don't want to risk the rest of you any more than necessary, and I'm leaving soon anyway." Dick sounds even closer now. "Thanks for the offer though."

"Anytime."

Tim keeps still and just barely manages to suppress a yelp as something moves the container. He shuts his eyes as the lid starts to open, but then a thud sounds from outside, and he hears Kory grunt from some sort of impact.

The lid falls shut again as Dick yells her name.

"I'm unharmed, go after the other one!" She calls back already sounding further away.

After that, silence settles, but Tim doesn't dare move for a long time. He waits for over an hour, trying to distract himself with his tablet, which he pulls out only after half an hour has already passed. It's not until he gets an update that the Titans are fighting someone downtown, and that Nightwing is there as well, that he dares leave his rather smelly hidey hole and makes his way back to his hotel.

-

"I feel like I still smell of garbage, to be honest." Tim says, wrinkling his nose. "That was one of the worst ideas I've ever had."

He can't argue with the results, though. Dick hadn't found him, though the lady at the reception of his hotel had given him an odd look when he asked whether they did laundry service.

In the end, he'd thrown the clothes out.

"I can't believe how much everything is spiralling out of control, Jason," he says, picking at a small hole in his favorite old sneakers. "Batman's losing his mind, Dick doesn't know what to do,  _ I _ don't know what to do. Crime is going up in Gotham right now, and Dick can't become Robin again if they are  _ that _ estranged."

There's a thought trying to pop up from the back of his head, but he shoves it down with a vengeance.

"Batman needs Robin," Tim has been repeating this to himself for over a week now, but since he left Dick's apartment, he has no idea what to do about the notion.

He still believes it, he's just not sure how to get there.

That tiny little thought perks up again, this time breaking through.

_ You could be Robin, _ it says, and Tim groans.

"The only solution I keep coming up with at this point is somehow getting myself into the suit." he whispers, afraid of even saying it out loud. "But that's—I can't—There's no way, right?"

Tim groans and lets himself drop backward so that he's lying on the grass.

"There's no way I can be Robin. You said it yourself, I'm tiny."

_ Dick was even smaller when he started. Besides, you've grown a couple inches since he said that, _ his mind helpfully supplies.

"And you and Dick are both brave in a way I could never be."

_ You were brave enough to help Batman while he was bleeding out, and you jumped off a fire escape a few days ago. _ Tim would really appreciate it if the part of his brain that keeps coming up with counter arguments could go take a hike.

"I'm not built for all that jumping off buildings and stuff."

_ Yet you seem to have been doing just that for years, been doing especially well since those free running lessons. _

"Besides, Robin is yours, I could never take your place." Tim's voice gets a bit louder, a bit more sure of himself. "And I’m awkward, I could never make Batman laugh the way you did."

That finally makes the little voice shut up.

-

The sound of screams surrounds Tim as he looks through his lens at the blue jay perched on a tree a few meters away. It scares the bird off, and Tim looks up to see what the commotion is about.

Panic is spreading throughout Robinson Rark fast, and Tim can see people running away from the center of the park. It doesn't take long for him to see why.

While there was already a thin layer of snow covering the ground when he arrived, now huge blocks of ice are scattered all over, and some of them seem to be encasing people.

Time to get the hell out of there.

Tim runs back to where he left his backpack, and is about to run off when an ice beam shoots right over his right shoulder.

"I wouldn't recommend running, if I were you," a slightly hoarse voice calls from behind him.

Tim doesn't quite dare to turn or run, but he slowly twists his head slightly to the right so he can see behind him from the corner of his eye.

Mr. Freeze stands behind him with a very odd looking gun pointed right at him.

Tim’s about to turn and run anyway when another voice, distinctly female, calls out from somewhere in the trees.

"So wait," the voice says, "his choices are between running and _ possibly _ getting frozen, and standing still, and  _ definitely _ getting frozen? That's stupid."

Tim holds his breath, turning just a little further to get a better look at Mr Freeze.

"I don't know, Batgirl, I think the kid’s undecided," sounds from another direction, also in the trees.

"Really?" Batgirl answers, "I think he looks like a smart kid, Rob, looks like he wants to run to me."

Mr. Freeze is looking away from Tim now, but he still has the gun pointed at him, so he stands still.

"Wanting and doing are two different things, though," Robin calls, this time from noticeably closer to Tim than before.

"Maybe we should give him a hand then." At that moment, two batarangs fly and embed themselves into Mr. Freeze's helmet, and he turns to fire an ice beam into the trees.

Tim takes his cue to run, but a hand grabs his and pulls him the other way.

"She read my mind, Batgirl’s good like that." Tim stumbles a bit as he realises Robin is pulling him towards a large boulder.

When they reach the other side, Robin turns to look at him. There's a slight pause, and the hand on his wrist tightens a bit before he asks, "Y-you alright?"

Tim has to blink a couple times and shake himself out of the shock of being in the middle of things for once before he can force himself to nod.

"Good," Robin says, "It's just Freeze out there, but it's too open a field to book it right now. The good news is that he's slow as shit, and B's on the way with a contingency option. As long as you keep the boulder between you and him, you should be fine. Think you can do that?"

Tim’s head is reeling from the adrenalin, and before he can gather himself enough to answer, Robin adds, "Or would you like me to stay with you?"

Robin doesn’t look at him as he asks the question, but almost sounds hopeful. Which Tim thinks is stupid because it’s really friggin’ cold out here, and Robin’s cheeks are already red from the cold. Moving would probably help him warm up. 

Tim shakes his head. "No, I'll be fine. Like you said, he's slow, right?"

Robin looks at him for a few seconds more. "Right," he echoes, but he doesn’t move quite yet. 

After a few seconds of being watched, Tim shuffles uncomfortably.

“Uhm,” he says, “You can let go of my hand now?”

Jason drops his hand as if it’s burned him. “Right. Sorry,” he says, before taking off, running back to where Batgirl is still distracting Mr. Freeze from the few other civilians still around.

Tim shakes Robin’s odd behavior off and inches around the rock until he can just make out the fight. He’s reminded of the camera which is very conveniently hanging from his neck by the pressure of the strap. He was planning on showing the pictures he made today to his parents and classmates, though, and the negatives will be attached to the ones he made earlier.

He regretfully refrains from taking any pictures, but he does get a good look as Batman seems to come out of nowhere and enters the fray as well.

The fight slowly inches towards the boulder Tim is hiding behind, and he becomes a little worried about it. He considers backing away around the boulder when he realises he hasn't seen Robin in a while. Then, a round object arcs through the air from the top of the boulder and sticks to the barrel of Mr Freeze's gun, right as he tries to shoot it. It bursts into a chunk of ice, big enough to cover Mr. Freeze to halfway up his chest and all the way to the ground, pinning his arms in place as well.

Mr. Freeze looks down at the ice encasing him, and asks, "What on earth is this?"

Batgirl jumps down from a tree branch, hitting the helmet with a dropkick, right where she already damaged it, and it shatters around him.

As she lands in a crouch, looking up at Mr. Freeze, she says. "It's this nice little thing called 'karma'."

Robin jumps from the top of the boulder, landing right next to Batgirl.

"Yeap, what she said," he says, grinning. "But I like to pronounce it 'haha, fuck you, bitch."

He punctuates the statement by punching Mr. Freeze in the face, knocking him out.

Batman lands besides the two and the knocked out villain and growls, "Language, Robin."

He seems to be trying to be stern with Robin, but even from this distance Tim can see he's fighting a smile.

Robin ignores him completely in favor of fistbumping Batgirl, a giant shit-eating grin on his face. 

“Robin…” The fact that the struggle to be strict is audible in Batman’s voice doesn’t help with the intimidation factor at all.

The Boy Wonder turns to his mentor and tilts his head in an obvious mockery of innocence. 

“What? I could have done loads worse, like icicle dick,” he says, “And you gotta admit, that would be way more accurate.”

Batman chokes on a guffaw of laughter, and tries to hide it as a cough, resulting in Batgirl comically slapping his back.

Tim can't help himself, he bursts out laughing, seeing the heroes’ antics. Which, of course, earns him their attention. Before he knows it, a smirking Batgirl is pushing a slightly protesting Robin in his direction. 

In the end, Robin appears to decide that resistance is futile, and after saying something to Batgirl under his breath, he walks the rest of the way on his own. 

“Hey.”

-

“You stayed with me the entire time it took for the police to get there,” Tim says, still lying in the grass. “All with Batgirl cackling strangely in the background. I think she even stopped some other people from talking to us.” 

He still doesn’t understand what was going on with that, other than maybe he was the unknowing victim of some sort of practical joke? If it was, he doesn’t get it.

“I could barely speak the entire time,” mostly because he kept having trouble not calling him Jason, “and I think you became very worried about my mental state by the end of it.” 

Tim smiles wistfully as he thinks back to it. Not even getting jumped by random people right after Robin left, all wanting to know what the Boy Wonder wanted from him, could ruin that memory.

“After that, I spent weeks wondering if you recognized me, especially since we talked at the Christmas gala just a few days before that.”

There’s no way to ever know now, Tim supposes. 

It’s a sobering thought, and he returns his mind to a more productive path. 

“Maybe Miss Gordon will know what to do,” he whispers after a while, “you seemed to get along well with her.” 

Well enough that she was one of the select few who attended the funeral, even. 

“Then again, it hasn’t been that long since she was shot.” Tim can’t even begin to imagine what it must be like for someone like Batgirl to lose the use of her legs. “Maybe I shouldn’t bother her.”

After that, he sits in silence, staring at the grass for a long time. He doesn’t leave until the feeling of being watched overcomes him again. 


	7. Grapnel Lessons And Arkham Escapees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Usually, when things seem overly complicated, the best place to begin is at the start.”_  
Solid advice, in Tim’s opinion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!  
New chapter, I'm pretty excited about this one ^^.  
It's a bit longer than the others, but I think it flows well, so bear with me.  
Things will really start to get rolling in this and the next chapter (which I'm almost done writing, but you'll have to wait until next week for it). 
> 
> As always, super big thank you to njw for doing the beta-thing!
> 
> (There will be a note at the end, too, this time, because it's related to this chapter, and I don't wanna spoil stuff)

Tim runs up to the grave in the dark, highly aware he’s already breaking the promise he made only a few hours ago, but he  _ had  _ to come. 

“Hey, Jason,” he gasps.

He falls to his knees in front of the grave, and takes a while to catch his breath. 

“So many things are happening at once, I don’t even know where to start.” 

A phantom voice calls to him, something said to him barely a week ago. 

_ Usually, when things seem overly complicated, the best place to begin is at the start. _

Solid advice. 

“So, after I got back from San Francisco, I didn’t know what to do next, right?” Tim says when he finds a good place to start from. “But around that time, Batman seemed to calm down a bit, so I figured I had some time to make a solid plan. Scope things out properly this time.” 

Because the San Francisco operation had been hastily set up in hindsight. The gaps in the strategy are painfully clear when he looks back on it. 

“So, I did some… creative internetting, again, and found out that Barbara still works as the head librarian for the Gotham public library.” He wonders if he should be excited to discover he has a talent for hacking, or worried about his own increasing willingness to break the law to get what he wants. 

“And since I didn’t want a repeat of how things went with Dick, I decided to scope things out.” 

-

Tim feels a little overwhelmed when he enters the Gotham public library. He’s not sure what he expected, but the smell and sight overcomes him. It’s much bigger than the library at his school, that’s for sure. 

His grip on his backpack strap tightens as he takes it all in and tries to figure out where to go next. The personnel records said Miss Gordon should be present right now, but there’s a different lady at the desk. 

A lady who catches his eye, and smiles. “Good afternoon, young man. Can I help you with anything?” she asks. 

Bingo, Tim practiced for this. He smiles somewhat hesitantly.

“Um, good afternoon,” he says, fidgeting a bit, playing up the shy teenager a lot of people presume him to be. “I have to write an essay as part of my summer homework without using the internet for references. I thought maybe I could do it here?” 

The lady smiles. “Of course you can, dear. Just pick a desk to sit at, and if you need help finding anything, don’t hesitate to ask me or any of the other librarians, alright?” 

He suppresses a grin, and nods before finding a desk from which he can see a large part of the library. It’s quiet, and he wonders if that’s always the case, or if it’s because it’s summer, and the weather outside is too nice to be in here. 

The drawback of this plan is that he needs to appear like he’s working on his homework. The upside is, he’ll probably have to write an essay again at some point in his life, so he can just rework this one as soon as an applicable opportunity comes up. 

He works on his fake essay for the better part of an hour before he sees Miss Gordon roll in the front doors followed by the police commissioner. They appear to be having some sort of discussion, where Miss Gordon steadily moves on while her father dogs her every move. 

As they pass right behind Tim, he picks up a part of their conversation. 

“I’ve accepted it, dad,” Miss Gordon says, “It’s time you did, too.” 

“There are still tests we haven’t tried,” Commissioner Gordon says, a somewhat stubborn quality to his tone. 

They move out of hearing range, but Tim needs to hear more of this. He calmly closes the book he was reading, and moves to follow the pair. Miss Gordon has picked up a stack of books along the way, and is putting them back into the shelves. Tim enters the aisle behind her, the psychology section, and quietly pretends to browse while listening in. 

“—my daughter, I just want to help,” the commissioner says. 

Miss Gordon sighs. “And I love you for that, really. But you need to understand that I lost use of my legs, not my brain. I may be stuck in this chair for the rest of my life, but that doesn’t make me incapable of being a contributing member of society.” 

Tim feels his image of Barbara Gordon shift as he listens. He always knew she was capable, an asset to any superhero team she cooperated with, but the way she carries herself now is absolutely amazing, and he feels just a little bit in awe. 

Maybe she can help him out after all. 

“Just— Just be carefull, okay, Barbara?” A peek between books reveals the commissioner has a hand on Miss Gordon’s shoulder. 

She covers it with her own. “Of course, dad. Always.” 

After that, the commissioner leaves, and Tim goes back to looking for a book he could possibly use for the fake essay. He needs to come up with a way to get Miss Gordon alone, so he can talk openly. Not here, you never know who is listening in. 

“Can you find what you’re looking for?” 

He jumps and turns in fright as the familiar voice sounds from behind him, nearly falling into the shelves. The only thing that keeps him upright is Miss Gordon’s firm grip on his wrist. She smiles and lets go when he’s steadied himself. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. Stella at the desk said you’re doing homework?”

Tim nods mutely, highly aware that he’s being weird, but this isn’t the plan. There  _ is _ no plan yet! Why can’t anything just go his way for once?

It appears to be enough of an answer for Miss Gordon, though. 

“So, like I said, can you find what you’re looking for?” 

He considers saying yes and getting out of this interaction as soon as possible, but part of him rebels against it. He’s got her talking to him now, might as well go with it. 

_ Alright, Tim. Time to improvise. _

“I’m actually looking for information on how the human brain stores information and memories,” he says. 

It earns him an impressed look. “That’s pretty high level stuff for someone your age. What kind of homework is this?” 

It’s not hard to fake feeling a bit embarrassed by the praise, as that is exactly how he feels. 

“A free topic essay,” he says, carefully formulating his next words. “On the myth of photographic memory.” 

He thinks he might see a twitch in Miss Gordon’s expression, but it’s gone so fast, he can’t be sure. 

“Myth, huh? What makes you say that?” she asks.

Tim shrugs, tries to act nonchalant. “Scientists can’t find any evidence that photographic memory exists. It’s a hard concept to provide proof for.” 

She looks at him for a long moment, before rolling a bit further along the aisle and pulling a book from the shelf. 

“This book gives the basics of what we know of how the human brain works. Chapter two gives an overview of the anatomy of the brain, and chapter four goes into memory storage, and the difference between eidetic and photographic memory.” She doesn’t hand the book over right away, instead grabbing a post it note and a pen from a satchel attached to the side of her chair. 

He can’t see what she’s writing, but she does add, “There are some other books you might find interesting in the biology section which discuss it from a neurobiologic point of view, but this is as good a point to start as any. I wrote down the call numbers and authors of some of them for you, so you can look at that later.”

With that, she sticks the note to the inside of the book cover, and hands it to him. 

Tim stammers a quick, “Thank you.” and makes his way back to his desk. 

He sits back down in his chair and opens the book with one hand, while already grabbing his pen and notebook with the other. This book seems pretty interesting. 

He drops the pen back down, and slams the book closed the moment he sees what’s written on the note. 

He looks around, but other than one stressed looking woman of about college age who glares at him for making too much noise, no one is paying him any attention that he can see. 

Miss Gordon is nowhere to be seen either. 

Tim pulls the book a little closer and carefully lifts the cover again, revealing the little note he’s watched Miss Gordon write. 

_Funny thing, _I _have photographic memory. But you already knew that, didn’t you, Mr. Drake? I’m much more interested in your trip to San Francisco. Why don’t you come tell me about it in my office?_

_ BG, _

_ P.S. pretend to read for about half an hour before you do, or better yet, do read it, it’s a good book.  _

He’s so incredibly busted. 

His heart rate spikes and he feels a drop of sweat forming on his temple as he considers just running for it. He probably wouldn’t get very far though, and even if he did, she obviously knows who he is. 

After thirty-five agonising minutes in which Tim tries and fails to read the book, he closes it, packs his stuff, and makes his way to the door labeled ‘Head Librarian’. 

He’s called inside almost as soon as he knocks, but Miss Gordon doesn’t say anything else until he’s closed the door behind him.

“Take a seat, Timothy,” she says, “Though, I hear you prefer Tim.” 

He’s aware in a detached sort of way of his legs carrying him to the chair Miss Gordon gestured towards. 

“Who told you that?” he asks, not sure what else to say. 

Her smile is bittersweet as she replies. “A kid I used to tutor. His name was Jason.” 

The mention of his name sends a wave of sadness through Tim, but he also feels an overwhelming sensation of wonder. 

_ Jason talked about me? Enough for you to remember? _

He realises he said that out loud when Miss Gordon’s smile grows a little. “Yes. Even without photographic memory it would be hard to forget the enthusiasm Jay employed in telling me what I missed at the Christmas gala, especially considering the amount of complaining I had to endure in the days prior to the event.” 

That means Jason had enjoyed talking to Tim, right? The realisation is overwhelming in a way, and he’s glad Miss Gordon gives him a while to let that sink in. 

“He was right,” Tim says when it settles, “I prefer to be called Tim.” 

“Alright then. Tim it is.” 

“Thank you, Miss Gordon.”

That earns him a frown. “Oh no. That won’t work at all. Call me Barbara, or I’m going back to Timothy.” 

“Okay?” This conversation is not going like he thought it would, at all. 

There’s that tiny twitch at the corner of her mouth again. “Why does that sound like a question?”

He’s getting a bit tired of walking on eggshells in this conversation. “Because I’m pretty sure this isn’t what you wanted to talk about?”

The mood in the room shifts when he says that, and he almost instantly regrets it. 

“True,” is all Barbara says before a long silence settles in which she just looks at him, and he can’t find the will to look away. 

Tim fidgets in his chair, and imagines this is what it must feel like to be interrogated by anyone in the bat-clan. The silence stretches far beyond comfortable, and he feels like he should say something, anything, but he doesn’t know where to start. 

“You know,” the clear sound of Barbara’s voice shocks him out of his thoughts, “it’s considered rude to look at other people’s private files without permission. Illegal, too.” 

Tim feels himself go pale and very still. He’s not just busted, he’s super busted. The casual tone in which Barbara says it doesn’t help at all. 

“Um…” he doesn’t even know where to begin answering that statement. 

Luckily, Barbara isn’t done talking yet. 

“Off course, considering the fact that I was monitoring that computer close enough to notice it, which is also pretty illegal, I don’t have much room to talk.” 

His mind is overloaded by the sheer panic of being discovered. How much does she know? Did she tell anyone else? The question that wins over the others in the end is, “How?”

Barbara smiles. “I noticed the breach in the library system two days ago. Someone looking at my employment file. From there it was a matter of following the trail. At first I thought someone was trying to commit identity fraud.” 

Tim frowns. “At first?” he asks. That implies—

“I would have handed you over to my father by now if I still thought that.” 

That makes sense. 

“What  _ do _ you think I was trying to do?” 

Barbara leans forward to rest her arms on the desk. 

“I don’t know,” she says slowly, her tone measured. “I do know that I think you know more than you should. I know Jason thought you were a good kid. I know I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt by giving you a chance to explain yourself because of that.”

_ And you do all that, while wording everything very carefully in order not to accidentally reveal anything, should I not know anything,  _ Tim thinks. 

A sigh escapes him as he admits to himself he’s not going anywhere without explaining himself. Maybe that’s alright; he came here for a reason after all. 

“How secure is this room?” he asks, steeling himself to talk about things he hasn’t ever said out loud, not even to Jason’s grave. 

“Secure enough, for now. If you start on a topic I feel needs a higher level of security, I’ll move us.” 

He wants to say he’s pretty sure they’re gonna need to move, but he trusts Barbara to know about these things better than him. 

He opens his mouth to start explaining, only to realise he has no idea how to. What  _ was _ he trying to do? 

“I was looking for someone who can help Batman.” It’s not the full story, and it feels overly simplified, but it’s a start. 

“And something you found in San Francisco made you think I was that person?” Barbara sounds a bit incredulous.

“Yes. No!” He groans and slips a bit down his seat. “It’s complicated. Everything’s gotten all messed up, and I didn’t know what else to do.” 

He lifts a hand and runs it through his hair in frustration. “It’s gotten so convoluted I don’t even know how to even begin explaining how I got here anymore.”

The smile that she gives him is much kinder than he would expect in a situation like this. “Usually, when things seem overly complicated, the best place to begin is at the start.”

Well, yeah. Sure. But. 

“That might take a while,” he says. 

“I’ve got time.”

He heaves another defeated sigh before taking a minute to order his thoughts. 

“There’s a lot of different starting points I could choose from,” he says, “and if you want to know why I am doing all this, it starts with Jason’s death.” 

It’s almost imperceptible, but he can hear Barbara’s breath catch at that statement. She seems to be gearing up to ask something, but he continues talking before she can. 

“However,” he says, “none of that will make sense without proper context, so the true beginning for me was when I figured out who—” 

“You know what, you’re right,” Barbara interrupts him. “This room is not secure enough, we’ll need to move.” 

Half an hour later, Tim finds himself getting out of Barbara’s car and entering the old clock tower building. Which doesn’t surprise him too much, Barbara’s files say she lives here after all. 

Barbara has been quiet for a while now, though. Ever since they left the library, but he doesn’t think too much of it. They can’t continue their conversation for now, anyway. 

When they enter the penthouse apartment, Barbara makes him sit on the sofa while she makes them tea in the kitchen area in the far left corner from the elevator. Tim looks around the room, noting the open layout, and the three clock windows. The living area is set in the middle, but is given an illusion of separation by the two curved bookcases that surround it. There are more bookcases in the far right corner. There’s a lack of technology that shouldn’t be weird for a librarian, but considering Barbara hinted she’s been digitally following him with ease, it’s suspicious.

Barbara joins him and places a mug in front of him. “You can talk freely here,” she says.

He eyes her doubtfully for a few seconds. It feels weird to start again now. But he fixes his gaze on the bookcase opposite him and pushes through. 

He tells her everything. About how he found out who Batman and Robin are, about knowing that Dick left. He talks about Jason being adopted and about taking pictures of all of them. 

Then he talks about watching Batman spiraling out of control. About how he wants to help, and how he tried to help. He tells her about watching Dick and Bruce fight and about how Dick isn’t coming home. The only things he keeps to himself are his visits to the cemetery, that’s private. Throughout it all, Barbara is silent. She just looks at him with a penetrating gaze, and he has no idea what to make of that. 

Almost an hour later, Tim reaches the end of his story. His throat feels dry, and he eyes the cold tea that he hasn’t touched at all. 

“I just—” He stops and reformulates. “Gotham needs Batman. But in order to function properly, Batman needs Robin. He needs someone to make him stop and think. But with Jason gone and Dick not coming home, I didn’t know what to do.” 

Tim pauses and looks at Barbara for the first time since he started talking. “So when I saw the Batgirl file on Dick’s computer, I just had to open it. Even if you were retired, you had to know something that could help.”

Barbara sighs and rubs her eyes under her glasses. 

“That boy needs better security measures,” she says. 

“That’s what I thought,” Tim mutters under his breath. 

It draws Barbara’s attention back to him. 

“And you,” she says. “There’s a whole lot wrong with everything you just told me, but what bothers me most is that you’re implying you go out on your own at night, basically stalking Batman.” 

Stalking is such a strong word, but. “Yeah, pretty much.” 

Barbara looks up at the ceiling and whispers. “One day, I would like to meet a black haired, blue eyed male without a death wish.”

Then she turns a glare of epic proportions at Tim. “I could spend the next hour listing all the reasons why going out on your own at night in Gotham is stupidly dangerous, but I bet you’ve seen at least half of them with your own eyes, so I won’t waste my breath.”

Tim shrinks in on himself a bit. “I’m really careful,” he tries. 

It only serves to agitate her more. “Tim, you just told me that you shared a space with a tied up criminal while watching Batman break bones, that you literally fell off a fire escape ladder, and jumped off a building using a device you didn’t know how to operate. All that, in the. Last. Three. Months.” 

He doesn’t answer. What can he say? She’s telling the truth. 

“I’m sorry,” he ends up whispering.

A deep breath is taken on the other side of the room, before he hears the whisper of wheels on the floor creaking closer. 

“No, I’m sorry, Tim,” Barbara says from right in front of him. She leans forward so she can put a hand on his knee. “I’m not mad at you. I’m honestly torn between very concerned for your wellbeing and impressed with what you’ve managed to do so far. But you have to understand, it’s disconcerting for a vigilante to hear there was a child following them for years, and no one ever noticed. If anything had ever happened to you, we couldn’t have helped you.” 

Tim honestly never thought about it like that, always thought he was careful enough to evade trouble. 

“Will you tell the others?” Tim whispers. 

It takes Barbara so long to answer that he braves a glance in her direction, only to find her looking at him with an almost sad look on her face. 

“No, I won’t,” she says. “You’re right, they all have enough burdens to bear. _ I  _ might be able to help you out, though.” 

The relief followed by a good dose of hope that washes over him almost make him feel giddy. 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, I’ve got some ideas, but first,” Barbara smiles a soft smile that pulls Tim along, and takes one of his hands in one of hers. “Thank you for telling me all this, Tim, and for keeping our secret for this long.” 

It feels heartfelt, and he’s not quite sure what to do with it.

His cheeks burn with the blood rushing to them as he stammers through some sort of response, and Barbara’s smile grows wider in a way that rings all sorts of alarm bells in his mind. 

In a move that’s almost too fast to follow, he finds himself with both his cheeks pinched firmly between Barbara’s fingers. 

“Hey!” he protests, rapidly scrambling backwards over the back of the couch, away from the offending hands. He tumbles off, barely managing to twist so that he lands in a crouch. He looks at Barbara over the edge as he rubs one of his cheeks, only to find her holding her stomach and laughing at the top of her lungs. “What was that for?” 

“Oh. My. God,” Barbara gasps between laughs, “Jason was right, you’re adorable when you’re pouting.” 

Tim narrows his eyes. “I don’t pout.” 

Wait a second, adorable? Jason said he was adorable?

It’s a good thing he’s already blushing, because he thinks Barbara would never let it go if he blushed over that. The red on his cheeks is already deepening as it is. 

What does that mean, that Jason said that about him? Does it mean anything? And why is Tim reacting like this?

Barbara sobers up, and sits back in her chair. 

“Now as to what to do with B, let me ask you a question.”

He shakes himself out of his thoughts and tilts his head to indicate he’s listening. 

“If you feel like Batman needs a Robin, why not just become Robin yourself?” 

He breaks eye contact and looks at the empty wall to the right of the elevator. 

“I don’t think I can take Jason’s place like that,” he says.

“Why not?” 

“Because it’s his, and I don’t want to intrude.” Tim slowly stands up from behind the couch and shifts his gaze to stare at his hands grasping the back of it. “Besides, I could never be good enough.” 

“But you do believe someone needs to be Robin.” 

It’s not a question, but he nods anyway.

“Wouldn’t anyone else be intruding as well? How can you know someone else is good enough?” 

He shrugs helplessly. 

“Tim, look at me.” 

He reluctantly lifts his head and meets Barbara’s eyes. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t think about it as intruding, but as honoring,” she says softly, “and I can’t think of anyone who would be more aware of what being Robin means than you.”

He hadn’t considered that. But still…

“As for not being good enough,” Barbara continues, seemingly unaware of his internal dilemma, “That’s what training is for. Besides, you already do the roof jumping that comes with it. And from what you’ve told me, you’ve got the detective part down.”

A protesting noise leaves him before he fully registers it, but Barbara doesn’t allow him the time to properly formulate a response. 

“You don’t believe me, that’s fine,” she says, “but tell me, what is wrong with this apartment?” 

Tim doesn’t need to think about the question, the answer just rolls out. 

“The space between this floor and the one below is too big.” He starts slow, looking around him carefully for more information. “The windows are too deep, or the outer walls are too thick, both indicate hidden or unused space. The same goes for the wall to the right of the elevator. There should be space there as well, but unlike the left side, there’s no door.” 

Tim walks around the couch to stand dead center in the room, and turns around his axis once. 

“There is no technology, at all. I suppose you could have an office upstairs, as I know this isn’t the top level, but then why have all the books here?” 

When he meets Barbara’s eyes, she’s smirking. 

“Anything else?” 

He feels himself starting to smile, this is fun!

“Well, the big circle built into the floor is kinda suspicious.” he says, carefully watching as Barbara’s smirk grows. He’s doing well, but there’s still something he’s missing. 

He looks around again, a little stumped, but then he catches sight of the GCPD headquarters from one of the windows. Wait a minute, Barbara only moved here a few months ago, after she was already paralyzed. At first, Tim assumed this was leading to something connected to Barbara’s old Batgirl days, but that’s unlikely. 

Why would she need hidden spaces in her apartment? And also, for someone who’s retired, she’s oddly willing to help him out. 

But maybe that’s just it. 

Tim turns back to Barbara, and he knows before he says it that he’s right. 

“You’re not completely retired, are you?”

Her smirk morphs into a grin. 

“Got it in one.” She moves to a small bust on one of the bookcases, and flips its head backward. 

A beam of light moves over her face before a mechanical voice sounds from somewhere in the room. 

“Oracle recognised, war room activation sequence initiated.” 

Tim feels his jaw drop as large metal plates move over the clock windows like an aperture closing. The entire kitchen is pulled back into the wall behind it, and a laboratory set up comes up out of the floor to replace it. The rounded bookcases and even the couch and coffee table sink into the floor, to be replaced by a set of computer screens. 

By the time the transformation is complete, he can see why it’s called the war room. 

“Wow,” he breathes, then pauses. “Why are you showing me this?” 

Barbara rolls up to what looks to be the main terminal placed in the centre of the room. 

“Because I figured you’d appreciate the technology of it, unlike some other barbarians who leave their computers open on high security files when leaving their homes.”

He recognizes the dig at Nightwing for what it is, but Barbara continues before he can comment on it. 

“And also to prove a point. You figured out something was off about this apartment within hours of entering it. Do you know how many people, GCPD members included, come here regularly and never notice a thing? You’ve got talent, kid. Never doubt that.”

Oh right, that’s what they were talking about before he got distracted, wasn’t it?

He doesn’t answer, walks over to one of the holographic screens displaying a map of Gotham. 

A sigh sounds behind him and Barbara rolls up next to him. 

“Look,” she starts, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. What we do, it can have dire consequences. I’m a prime example of that, so is Jason. I honestly shouldn’t be encouraging any of this.”

A few keystrokes change the screen to a chart with statistics on the rise in crime in Gotham of the last couple months, as well as an overview of the injuries Batman has acquired in that same time period. 

“But I can’t ignore the facts either.” In his periphery, he sees her turn to look at him. 

They don’t talk for a long time, and Tim doesn’t know where to go from here. Barbara’s lived the life, knows what it takes to be a vigilante, so if she says he can do it, there’s got to be some truth to it. But it still doesn’t feel quite right. 

“Just promise me you’ll think about it.” 

The demand is made in such a gentle tone, it’s almost more like a request, and he finally turns to look at her. 

“I can do that,” he says. 

Barbara smiles, but doesn’t verbally react. 

“Well, then, one last thing before you go home,” she says. “Or more like two.” 

She digs into her pocket and hands Tim a phone after fiddling with it a bit. It’s open on a new contact form. 

“I want your phone number, and I’ll give you both my personal number, and a way to contact Oracle for emergencies.” 

“Why?” It’s both the first thing Tim thinks as well as verbalizes. 

“Because we’re in this together now, and with your hobbies, you need a back-up plan.” 

She’s not lying to him, but it’s not the whole truth either. Then again, he  _ did _ discover a whole bunch of secrets he’s not supposed to, so it’s not that strange that she’d want to keep a close eye on him.

He’s halfway through entering his phone number when Barbara adds, “Besides, no matter what you decide to do, I have a feeling you’ll be using that grapnel gun you nicked in the future. If I can’t stop you, I’m damn well going to teach you how to do it properly.”

-

“She wouldn’t let me go home before I promised to come back the next day with the grapnel gun,” Tim says. 

Practicing under Oracle’s careful watch was both exhilarating, and had emphasized again just how lucky he had gotten when he’d jumped off Dick’s fire escape. They’ve done three of those practise sessions now, the first of which was started with a two hour lecture on how it works and how to maintain it. He thinks he’s getting the hang of it a bit more. 

“Barbara hasn’t brought up the Robin thing since the first time,” Tim says after a short pause. “Neither have I.”

He’s thought about it, though. More than thought about it, he’s obsessed over it. He hadn’t allowed himself to fully consider it before, but now it’s like Barbara opened a door he hadn’t known was there, and he can’t bear to even try to close it, for fear of losing it.

But still. 

“I wish I knew how you’d feel about it, if I were to become Robin,” he whispers. “I wish you could answer, just this once. Barbara seems to think you liked talking to me, but would you still want to if I did this?” 

Tim doesn’t know the answer. He’s also firmly decided not to think about the whole “adorable” thing. He doesn’t like the way it makes him feel sad. Besides, Barbara must have been messing with him.

“I think Barbara really wants me to, though. She gave me some basic exercises to do at home, says it’s to give me some more upper-body strength, so the grappling’s safer....” 

Which is probably true, but if Tim’s learned anything from interacting with Oracle over the past week, it’s that she loves hiding secondary objectives under partial truths. 

“But it feels suspiciously like training.” Because needing upper-body strength is all well and good, but that really has nothing to do with how to throw a proper punch. Which he already knows thanks to the copious amounts of self defense classes he put himself through, thank you very much. 

Barbara had been ridiculously pleased when he told her about that last part. And about the free-running lessons.

“She’s also allowing me to see way too much of how she works as Oracle, and there’s suddenly a shit ton of hacking and surveillance software and instructions on how to use it on my computer that I’m positive I didn’t put there.” 

His firewalls had mysteriously gotten an upgrade as well. 

“She’s priming me, just in case. She doesn’t say anything about it, and neither do I, but I know that she knows that I know what she’s doing.” 

It’s frustrating as hell, because Tim hasn’t got a single doubt that she’ll stop if he asks her to, if he says he doesn’t want to be Robin. But he can’t deny that the training, the vigilante lessons hidden as thinking out loud, the look into a world he’s been watching from the outside for years is  _ intriguing _ . It’s the most fun Tim’s had in ages, and he doesn’t want it to end. 

After today, it might have to, though. 

-

Tim is in Barbara’s personal gym, wrapping his hands the way she taught him for practice, when her voice sounds over the intercom. 

“Tim, I’m sorry, but I’ll be busy for the rest of the night. You can stay and repeat last time’s practice on your own if you want, or I can call you someone to bring you home. Your choice.”

He frowns. While Barbara never lets him go home on his own after dark, it’s not exactly dark yet.

“What happened?” he asks, because something must have happened for Barbara to cancel their appointment. 

A silence follows, which makes him think maybe she’s already moved on to work on whatever crisis is happening somewhere around the world. 

“I really shouldn’t be telling you,” she says, but she sounds resigned. “Come on down, I have a feeling you’ll go figure it out on your own if I don’t show you.”

A grin creeps onto his face. It’s nice she knows him so well already.

“Wipe that grin off your face, Timmy, it was a complaint, not a compliment.” 

He tries to school his expression while he runs down the stairs to the war room, he really does. But as he enters, and hears Barbara grumble under her breath, “It’s like working with Dick or Jay all over again. Stupid, overly curious, stubborn boys,” he can’t keep the grin off his face. 

Who could? If they were being compared to their heroes. 

The grin freezes on his face as he comes close enough to see what’s on the screens. 

An Arkham breakout. A big one. 

“I wouldn’t have shown you this, but I have a feeling it will influence whatever you decide to do about our little problem,” Barbara says without taking her eyes off the screens. 

She’s going through security footage of the asylum, and the imagery is horrible. The part she’s looking at right now is from after it already happened. There are bodies of both guards and other patients in the hallways. Tim doesn’t need to ask to be sure his next statement is correct. 

“Joker’s among the escapees, isn’t he?” 

Barbara hums an affirmative. “Among others, yes. The police have decided to keep it quiet for now, but I thought you should know.” 

Suddenly, she turns and grabs Tim’s hand in a firm grip, forcing him to look at her. 

“Tim, I know you value your autonomy, and you’ll hate this request, but please. Please promise me you won’t go out alone at night. At least not until the Joker’s back in Arkham.”

The urgency of the request takes him by surprise, but Barbara must still see something in his expression that suggests he’ll deny her request. 

“Please, Tim.” It vaguely registers that she’s begging, though he can’t for the life of him figure out why this is so important to her. “B will flip, there’s no telling what he’ll do, which means the likelihood of collateral damage goes up exponentially. I don’t want you anywhere near it.” 

Even if he doesn’t understand the  _ why _ of it, he does acknowledge that Barbara is dead serious about keeping him away from it. 

“Okay,” he finds himself saying, and when that just brings a frown to Barbara’s features, he adds, “I won’t go out on my own at night until the Joker is back in Arkham. I promise.” 

Barbara is visibly relieved. 

“But I want to stay and see what happens.”

The grip on Tim’s hand tightens, and Barbara hold his gaze for a full ten seconds before she seems to decide he’s passed some sort of evaluation and lets go. 

“Alright.”

She tells him to stand a few steps back, and be quiet the entire time. 

Oracle doesn’t contact Batman, doesn’t even attempt to. She  _ does _ communicate with Mr. Pennyworth in the Batcave, but it appears Batman is unaware of that. 

A cold rush washes over him as he realizes Oracle is shunned by Batman as much as Nightwing is. 

In hindsight, he doesn’t know why he assumed she  _ would _ be working with Batman if he’s been isolating himself as much as he has. But he  _ had _ assumed it. 

It’s yet another little thought that adds itself to the bad feeling Tim’s been fighting for a long time now. A feeling centered around a doubt that he’s too stubborn to acknowledge is there. A doubt which lives in a nest of memories of events he refuses to look at too closely, so he just adds this little tidbit to the nest and resolutely turns his attention back to the matter at hand. 

How the police intend to keep the breakout a secret is a mystery to him. The official death count is at thirty-seven and rising. The families will have to be informed at least, and they probably won’t stay silent for long. 

Oracle tracks Batman through the sensors measuring his vitals built into his suit, an extensive camera system she has access to, and the audio from the comms between him and the Batcave (which is apparently exactly what they call it, and which is an actual cave in which bats live, and Tim doesn’t know how to feel about that). 

What follows is two hours of watching his hero prove all over again that he is not okay. Joker isn’t the only one who escaped, but Batman seems to have only one focus for the night. 

You’d think that’d give the other escapees some room to maneuver, but it really doesn’t. 

It’s like Batman blames each one of them for the escape of their fellow inmate personally, and punishes them accordingly. 

Nothing Mr. Pennyworth says over the comms holds him back, no amount of begging and pleading from the people he pushes for information holds him back, and as the night continues he only becomes more violent. 

Tim watches in horror, but he can’t make himself look away. Oracle glances at him a couple times as if she wants to ask him to look away, but she doesn’t. He thought Batman was doing just a little better the last couple of weeks. There had been a decrease in the amount of hospitalizations by his hand. There had been a few less injuries on his part as well. Tim had thought his untargeted rage was finally running out of steam. 

He’d been wrong. 

Or maybe he hadn’t, because this is obviously targeted rage. 

“Where’s Joker,” Batman growls, and his hacked cowl camera shows he’s holding Poison Ivy to a wall. Her chest and cheeks are shoved against the bricks, and he’s pressing her right hand against her back between her shoulder blades. Her left arm hangs limp at her side, either dislocated or broken if the crack it made when Batman caught her is any indication.

He injected some sort of drug in her earlier, the kind that keeps her from using her powers. 

“I don’t know,” she grinds out through her teeth, clearly in pain. She’s doing better on the begging front than those before her. Maybe she knows it won’t do her any good. “He wasn’t part of the plan.” 

“Lies.” 

Tim doesn’t think so, and from the look on Oracle’s face, she doesn’t think so either. 

Poison Ivy manages a glare out of the corner of the eyes. 

“We may be diagnosed as criminally insane, but most of us aren’t stupid, Batman. I don’t know what the clown did to piss you off, but the moment he came in last time, we all knew working with him would be a very big mistake.” 

_ Well, she’s right about that, _ he finds himself thinking, and from the huff Oracle makes, she thought something similar. 

The split second he looks away from the screen to see Oracle shaking her head proves to be a mistake because it means he has no warning for the distinct crack followed by the scream Ivy lets out next. 

He can feel the goosebumps it causes crawling over his skin, and he knows even before he looks back at the footage he’s not going to like what he sees. 

Ivy is still screaming, tears streaming down her face. Her right hand is still held against her own back, but now her pinky finger is pointing in a direction which is definitely not natural. 

When Batman moves to the second finger after that still doesn’t make her give him a more satisfying answer, Tim decides he’s seen enough. 

He turns and runs back up the stairs, grabs his phone and headphones. He plugs it all in and sets the music to the loudest playlist he can find. Then he spares a fleeting moment to be grateful his hands are still wrapped for the training he was supposed to do, before punching the practice dummy Barbara told him they’d be using today until he stops hearing Ivy’s screams in his head. 

Or at least, that’s what he plans to do, but by the time a hand on his shoulder stops him, he has no idea how much time has passed, and the screams are still there. 

He can’t quite read the look on Barbara’s face, but she traps his gaze until he relents and pulls the headphones from his ears. 

“Having a photographic memory sucks sometimes, doesn’t it?” she says.

Figures she’d know about that, but Tim can’t make himself care about how she does right at that moment. 

He just nods.

She holds his stare for just a few seconds more before she turns her attention to his hands, which are kinda aching, now that he thinks about it. 

“I’d lecture you on the immense stupidity of pushing yourself this hard in training without my supervision, but in this situation, I understand,” she says as she starts undoing the wrapping. “Besides, your body will be punishing you enough for it tomorrow.”

Barbara makes him go through a long cooling down before she allows him to shower and brings him home. When he asks her if she shouldn’t be in the war room, she’s quiet for a long time. 

“There’s nothing more I can do tonight,” she says when they are in the car, halfway to Bristol. “At this point, I’m just torturing myself looking at it.” 

Tim doesn’t know what to say to that. 

When they arrive in front of Tim’s house, it’s late. Really late. But Barbara doesn’t mention that it’s way too late for someone his age to be out. She never has mentioned asking his parents for permission with the training, either. Never asked about his family at all. 

He knows it’s probably because she did a background check. She knows there’s no one home to enforce any sort of curfew. Somehow knows he doesn’t want to talk about it. 

She makes him repeat his promise to not go out alone at night, tells him she can have someone pick him up and bring him wherever he wants to go. 

Through it all, he still hears that god awful wail in the back of his head. He hears it as he changes for bed, as he brushes his teeth. He hears it as he puts his workout clothes and the clothes he wears when he goes out at night in the washing machine.

It’s not until he’s cleaned the lenses of his camera methodically for the third time that it’s gone. 

Which allows his brain to jump right to the other things he’s been worrying about for days. The way Barbara is gently encouraging him to become Robin without actually saying it. The way he enjoys the training that comes with that so much it scares him just a little bit. The way Batman truly seems to be at a breaking point right now. That little sprout of doubt in its memory nest that is slowly but steadily growing with time. 

He’s restless, and he wants to go talk to Jason, but he promised he wouldn’t, so it’ll have to wait until daytime. 

After one last sweep through the house to see if he’s forgotten to clean anything up that he doesn’t want Mrs. Mac to see, he heads to bed. 

Maybe it’s the work out, or the stress of the day, but he’s gone in seconds. 

His sleep is deep and quiet, without the dreams that have been plaguing him lately, reflecting the stress he endures during the day. It’s almost peaceful. 

That is, until a familiar scream wakes him up. 

He’s checked his entire room and run up to the window to check the garden before he realises the scream happened in his dream. 

That urge to talk to Jason rears up again, but Tim firmly pushes it down. A promise is a promise, after all. 

Back in his bed, he tosses and turns for thirty minutes, but every time he closes his eyes, he sees that green hand with the digits pointing the wrong way. Everytime he clears his head, he thinks of how little time there seems to be left to do something about Batman’s situation. When he forces himself through a breathing exercise, he remembers doing it on that fire escape while Nightwing and Batman were fighting. 

Frustrated, he shoves his bedding off himself and swings his feet off his bed. 

-

“Barbara probably knows I’m out here right now.”

The muscles in his shoulders and arms are already starting to ache, just like Barbara predicted. When he places a hand on the grass to balance while repositioning from sitting on his knees to cross legged, they protest the abuse. 

“Well, she’ll know in the morning, I bet she’s sleeping right now, or she’d be here to drag me back home already,” he adds. “There’s no way she doesn’t have any trackers on me.” 

Which means she’ll be mad at him, but he can’t find it in himself to be bothered by that right now. He needed this talk, needed to let everything that happened out so that he can take a step back and reorganise the facts so they make sense to him. 

“So pretty much what happened is that Barbara knows that I know.” He taps the forefinger of his right hand.

“She’s pretty much got me pre-training to become Robin.” Middle finger.

“Joker escaped Arkham.” Ring finger.

“And Bruce went ballistic.” Pinky. 

When he says it like that, it’s not half as overwhelming as it felt when he was trying to sleep, but still. 

“Jason, what the hell am I supposed to do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, little note about the watchtower. I spent an unreal amount of time digging through comics to find a layout for it, but couldn't find anything that really matched my needs (i.e. something Tim could notice, without it being too obvious). I even tried drawing floor plans for it myself, to make it make more sense... but I kept running into problems. 
> 
> So, in the end, I went with an adaptation of the clocktower as it is in Batman: Arkham Knight (which has the added bonus of being able to park Batman in it and walking around while writing). It's a bit bigger than that one, and I added some extra stuff. 
> 
> If you want to see it, but don't own the game (and don't plan on ever doing so), go and search for: "batman arkham knight clocktower confirmation' on youtube , and click any of the meeting oracle videos. (I strongly advice watching the one called "Batman Arkham Knight: part 2 Meeting Oracle" by kNIGHTWING01, and skipping to around 15:00. They have a hilarious conversation about why Tim/Babs is a weird ship (just my opinion).)


	8. Neapolitam Ice Cream And Birthdays Remembered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“That does sound like something our Master Jason would do.” The pride in Mr. Pennyworth’s voice is nearly palpable._
> 
> When Tim envisioned running into someone at Jason’s grave, he certainly didn’t include reminiscing with Mr. Pennyworth about him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!
> 
> Thanks for all the stellar reactions so far, I really enjoy reading them!  
Here's a bit of fluff (part of which I may of may not have written before anything else in the series), enjoy it while it lasts :P.  
On another note, I'll be going on a trip next week, so while I've done my best, and next chapter is almost ready for beta, I might be a bit later with posting that one depending on traffic.  
Beta'd by njw, as before. Thanks!
> 
> Enjoy!!

If Barbara is mad at Tim for breaking his promise, she doesn’t show it. She doesn’t even mention that he did it, which makes him a bit anxious about their next meeting. 

He’s right to be anxious, because when he goes back for his next lesson two days later, she’s absolutely ruthless with him, despite the fact that he’s still sore. Although… The stretches she makes him suffer through actually help with that, so maybe not.

That was yesterday, and today Tim sits in the grass opposite the headstone, hugging his knees to himself. His muscles are still sore, but there's a definite improvement compared to before. Doesn’t change the tension coursing through his entire body, though. 

"Happy birthday, Jason," he mumbles into his knees. 

He knows he shouldn't be here, has been avoiding coming here on special dates, but he also knows the chances of Mr. Wayne showing up are slim at best.

The Joker is still out there, and before he’s captured, Batman won’t come within a mile of this place unless he thinks the Joker might come here.

The customary lily lies in the grass next to him.

"Sorry, I didn't bring you a present, I know it's rude. Don't really know what kind of things you like though. Kind of wish I did." Tim raises his head to look at the headstone that's slowly becoming more familiar to him than the faces of his parents. "I mean, what did you do when you had a night off? What movies did you like? What was your favorite subject in school? Is there even anyone to remember these things?"

Tim didn't come here to get mad again, but he feels himself getting frustrated anyway. With how often he has been here, he should have run into someone by now. Especially today. "Honestly Jason, I know you can't really hear me, but I just wish I knew these things. Anything. Hell, even your favorite flavor of ice cream would do." 

And it's true, Tim does know he's talking to an inanimate object, a symbol. Which is why he quite literally jumps when he gets an answer.

"Neapolitan." Tim's heart jumps to his throat as he turns to see Mr. Pennyworth, the Wayne family valet, approaching him. "His favorite flavor of ice cream was Neapolitan, Mr. Drake." 

Tim thinks he probably looks like a deer caught in a headlight, and the only thing he can manage to say is, "Oh."

His first instinct is to run, hide, and he scrambles to his feet, but Mr. Pennyworth continues. "Master Jason loved reading anything he could get his hands on. Classics, science fiction, anything really." Mr. Pennyworth moves to stand beside him, and he really just wants to run at this point, but his feet feel glued to the grass. "He read every single first edition book in the manor. Do not worry, Mister Drake, there are those who remember." 

Mr. Pennyworth falls silent then, and Tim wonders if he’s expected to leave.

Just as he doesn't feel like he can take the pressure anymore and turns to go, Mr. Pennyworth starts talking again. "I do not know why you visit as frequently as you do. I will not ask you. But I would have you know that you are most welcome to leave the flowers you bring at Master Jason's grave, you need not hide your presence by placing them elsewhere. Nor should you feel pressured to leave on my account."

Tim feels his heart hammering in his throat at the realization that Mr. Pennyworth had known about his visits. He should have known, he realizes, and the real question should be, "How long..?" How long has he known? Tim doesn't find the courage to complete the question. Luckily, it doesn't seem like he has to.

"I saw you after the funeral," Mr. Pennyworth says, and Tim's feels his breath get stuck on the way out. Had he heard him talk? Does he know that he knows? 

Usually he's quite good at managing his own facial expression, his mother has trained him rather thoroughly on the consequences of showing weaknesses to outsiders after all, but he's also aware he’s been slipping lately. Some of his distress must show on his face, for Mr. Pennyworth adds, "Do not worry, I did not wish to intrude upon your privacy, so I do not know what you may have said any other time you have visited. I only approached this time because I was lost in thoughts and was already too close by the time I noticed your presence."

Tim feels some of the panicked pressure in his chest loosen up at the words and the somewhat sad expression on Mr. Pennyworth's face. He still doesn't know how to react to this revelation though, and he ends up just nodding. 

Does that mean Mr. Pennyworth is the one whose eyes he's been feeling on him? It would be a relief, in a way, if it was. 

They fall into silence again, and Tim only then starts processing the information he just got, and frowns.

"What kind of flavor is Neapolitan?" he asks, before he can stop himself.

Mr. Pennyworth makes a surprised sound, "You don't know?"

Tim turns to see a delicately raised eyebrow, "No?"

The butler holds Tim's stare for what feels like a really long time, before heaving a big sigh.

“Wait here, please, Mr. Drake. I’ll let you have some privacy as you visit. Perhaps we can converse some more when I return.” 

It’s not formulated as a demand, and not even as a request either. But Tim knows without a doubt there is no way he can refuse the suggestion. 

He nods mutely, and accepts the lily that Mr. Pennyworth picks up and hands to him. 

The valet is long gone when Tim brings himself to turn to the grave again, and then it takes even longer for him to take those last few steps to place the lily at the angel’s feet. 

It feels odd, to finally place the flower there after all this time, but it does feel right in a way very few things do recently. 

He takes a few steps back and sinks back onto the grass, mimicking his stance from before. 

He sits for a while longer, before he starts feeling like he’s being watched again. 

Not Mr. Pennyworth, then. 

He looks around, but there is no one else near, unless you mean the old lady tending to the roses on the grave almost a hundred yards over. 

He’s been feeling eyes on him a lot over the last few days. At first, he thought it was Barbara tracking him; after this morning, he’s not so sure. 

“Mom called this morning,” he says. 

-

When Tim’s phone rings while he’s eating breakfast, he almost considers not picking up. He’s been ignoring his parents’ texts ever since they forgot his birthday, but not picking up a call is a next step up, and he’s sure his mother wouldn’t be pleased with him if he did. 

In the end, he picks it up and swipes to receive the call. 

“Hello mother,” he says, his voice carefully modulated. She’d probably be proud if he wasn’t turning it on her. 

As it is, she barely seems to notice it. 

“Tim, honey. Thank god. Are you alright?” He’s never heard her this audibly anxious before, and it instantly pulls him along with her.

That doesn’t mean he isn’t still sore about the birthday thing. 

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” he asks, makes a point of keeping that cold quality in his voice. His mother is smart, she’ll figure out he’s angry with her at some point. 

“Well, you haven’t been responding to our texts at all, even when we suggested you come over to the dig during the summer,” his mom says, “and now with all this business with Mr. Head, I got worried.” 

Tim grits his teeth in an effort to respond somewhat politely. 

“If you don’t know why I wasn’t responding, I was right not to,” he says, then stops. “Wait, what Mr. Head?” 

Who the hell is that?

“No, I don’t know why you would choose to do that, Tim, you’ve always wanted to come along to one of our trips.” It’s funny how his mom's the only one he can have these double conversations with. Even if she’s steadily tensing up, slowly falling behind her usual mask of calm. Tim knows better, though. Something is bothering her, and this conversation isn’t setting her at ease at all. “Mr. Head. The principle of a very exclusive boarding school in England that wants to give you a full scholarship? Since we’d never heard of him, we assumed you must have met him, since he seems so impressed with you.”

Tim is torn between ice cold rage and sheer panic. The combination causes a pressure on his lungs that makes it near impossible to breath. 

“Well if you hadn’t forgotten my birthday,  _ mother, _ perhaps  _ I _ wouldn’t forget to answer you texts.” It’s the other part of what his mother said that really bothers him at the moment, though. “And how many times do I have to say I don’t want to go to boarding school for you to listen? Also, no, I’ve never heard of anyone by that name, and you’ve raised me better than to forget something like that.” 

The silence that rings through the phone is deafening. 

“What do you mean, forgot your birthday?” she sounds honestly perplexed, which just riles Tim up more. 

“What does it sound like? No calls, no present, even though you promised one. The only time I spoke to you that day was when you wanted a fax of that  _ stupid _ contract.” Tim knows he’s being childish, but this is his mother, damn it, and she’s acting like she has no clue what he’s talking about. 

“Tim, your father and I spoke to you first thing in the morning. We made sure to meet up for a late lunch so we could call you together. You were the one who didn’t want to video call.” 

What?

“I think I’d remember that,” Tim says. 

His mother goes very quiet after that, and he hears her typing something on her computer. 

“We also sent you a present, Tim. A new camera, exactly the one you wanted, had it special made with a weather resistant case.” 

Tim can’t believe what he’s hearing. His mother wouldn’t lie about something like this. So what the hell is going on here?

“Well, nothing arrived here, that’s for sure.” 

A few more keystrokes are heard before Tim’s cell phone vibrates to indicate an incoming message.

“The tracking code says it was delivered, I sent you the email that went with it.” 

Tim’s shaking in his seat. What the hell is going on? 

He pulls the phone away from his ear and turns it to loudspeaker so he can open the email he just received. 

Then he just stares at the proof that his parents hadn’t forgotten his birthday. That they’d had a camera exactly to the specs he wanted custom made for him. One that was clearly marked ‘delivered’. 

“We’re coming home.” His mother’s voice shocks him out of his thoughts, not just because of the strange tone in her voice that he’s never heard before, but also because of what she just said. 

“What?” he stutters out.

“Something’s not right,” she answers, and while she sounds very much displeased, he’s pretty sure it’s not with him. “I don’t like it. So I’m calling Jack, and we’re coming home as soon as we can get take off clearance.” 

He can hardly believe what he’s hearing. His parents are coming home, leaving any and all appointments behind. Why? Because of him? 

Suddenly, the secondary conversation becomes a lot more important. “Mom, what did you tell the Head guy?” he asks. 

Her voice turns gentle, even though he can hear the rapid clacking of the keyboard as she probably adjusts her schedule. 

“We told him ‘no’, Tim. We might be stubborn, but we do hear you when you say you don’t want to do something.” 

Relief washes over him, he can’t afford to be sent to boarding school  _ now.  _

He still feels uncomfortable about the whole situation, though. 

“I’ll let you get to packing, and stuff, then,” he mumbles, half convinced his mother won’t even hear him. 

The clacking stops. 

“Tim?” she asks, and after he hums his attention, she continues. “I’m very sorry about your birthday, honey, I don’t know what happened there, or  _ who  _ we spoke to if it wasn’t you. But I’m sorry, I should have noticed something was off when I spoke to you again later.” 

Tears burn in his eyes. This might just be the first time his mother has apologized to him, and he has absolutely no idea how to handle it.

“It’s alright,” he whispers, but his mother won’t have it. 

“No, it’s really not,” she sighs, “but we’ll talk about it when we get home, ok? I’ll see you soon.” 

“Yeah, see you soon.”

“Love you.” And that’s enough to make the tears flow. 

“Love you, too, mom.” 

-

“I…” Tim trails off, doesn’t know what he was going to say. 

The entire day, he’s felt tense. He considered not going to the grave, but he couldn’t not come on Jason’s birthday, so he told himself it would make him feel better until he believed it. 

It was a lie, of course. If anything, he feels exposed here, watched. 

He wonders if he should tell Barbara about this, but then he thinks of the bags under her eyes yesterday, and about the Joker, and he shakes himself out of it. 

She’s got enough on her mind, and his parents are coming home, they confirmed that they took off an hour ago. They should be here soon. 

Steps on the gravel alert him to another presence, and he looks behind him, muscles locked up with the stress of the day. 

But it’s Mr. Pennyworth, and if there's anyone who’s safe in Gotham, it’s the gentle old man who conducts the lives of the people who live in Wayne manor. 

He's carrying a small cooling bag, and a bundle of white tea roses. 

He nods to Tim in greeting before turning his eyes to the angel. A small smile graces his face, and he places the roses gently besides the single lily, carefully making sure the lily isn’t hidden by the roses. 

Then he walks over to a bench a little ways away, but which still has a clear view of the grave. 

Tim tracks his every move, and when the elderly man raises a single eyebrow at him once he sits down, he scrambles to stand up and join Mr. Pennyworth on the bench instead. 

The cooling bag is opened, and Mr. Pennyworth lifts two bowls with lids and two spoons out of it. 

“I’m afraid Master Jason would never forgive me if I neglected to spread the joy that is Neapolitan ice cream with someone unknowing,” he says, “I can’t think of a better day to do so than today.” 

The lid of the first bowl is removed and held out to Tim, who takes it before truly thinking about it. 

“Thank you.” 

At least his manners haven’t abandoned him. 

It’s a good thing, too, because while Mr. Pennyworth’s expression doesn’t change much, the approval flows out of him in warm waves. 

“You are very welcome, Mr. Drake.” 

Tim turns his attention to the bowl in his hands.

There’s three distinct colors of ice cream, and he wonders which one is the Neapolitan. 

He opens his mouth to ask, but it turns out to be unnecessary. 

“Neapolitan ice cream refers to the combination of vanilla, chocolate and strawberry flavors. Master Jason was of the opinion there is no better way to enjoy ice cream than to have those three flavors at the same time.” 

That’s… rather more simplistic than Tim was expecting, but it also makes sense. Jason never seemed to like any of the overly fancy stuff served at galas. 

He carefully scoops a bit of all three flavors on his spoon and allows the ice cream to melt on his tongue. 

It’s not a flavor he would usually pick for himself, but he can admit the combination of flavors work well. The amazing part is that the ice cream is smooth and creamy, while still tasting like genuine chocolate, strawberry, and vanilla. Nothing like the store bought chocolate ice cream he sometimes gets from Mrs. Mac. 

“This is really good,” he tells Mr. Pennyworth, who smiles. 

“I’m glad, make sure you tell the chef that as well.” 

That confuses Tim. He sorta assumed Mr. Pennyworth made it. It apparently shows on his face, for the man chuckles and gestures to the angel. 

“Master Jason also enjoyed cooking, I’ve been saving this batch for a suitable day.” 

He nearly drops the bowl in his hurry to hand it back over. 

“If Jason made this, shouldn’t you be sharing it with someone more important?” he asks. 

Mr. Pennyworth’s expression turns sad, and he doesn’t take the bowl from Tim, just keeps eating his own. 

“As I said before, he would never forgive me if I didn’t share it with someone who’d never experienced it.”

Tim is still unsure about eating it though. Some part of him is awed by the idea of eating something made by Robin, but it also feels… personal. 

“I should also add he had no patience for people who waste food.” 

Properly chastised, he pulls back the bowl and starts eating the rapidly melting treat again.

They eat in silence, and after the empty bowls have been returned to the cooling bag, Mr. Pennyworth shares a few more stories and favorites of Jason with Tim. 

His voice is both incredibly sad and impossibly fond the entire time. 

He doesn’t know why, but the elderly man shares all kinds of little tidbits of information about Jason with him, and he absorbs it all like a sponge. 

In a short, but comfortable silence that follows, Tim finds himself sharing something of his own. 

“He sat with me during lunch, this one time.”

-

Tim sits down at a bench under the tree he usually eats his lunch at with a sigh. Ives is home with the flu, and the rest of his friends don’t have the same lunch period, so he’s alone. 

That wouldn’t be a problem, but he can already see Mark Jenkins eyeing him from across the field. 

He and his friends haven’t bothered him much since Ives transferred in, but Tim doesn’t like the way he’s looking at him right now. He can take care of himself if they try something, but he doesn’t want them to even attempt it. He just wants to eat his lunch in peace, and maybe get a start on organizing his history notes so he can share them with Ives as promised. 

The situation makes him tense, and that annoys him. 

“So, I checked out the first few episodes of modern era ‘Doctor Who’,” a voice says from beside Tim, and he turns to see Jason walk up to him and then unceremoniously drop next to him on the bench with his packed lunch in his hands. “That show is weird as fuck, I love it. But you misled me, Timmy. I thought it would be some old geezer, but this guy’s just some crazy, witty jerkass with a serious case of survivors guilt. The leather jacket’s pretty cool, though.”

For a few seconds, Tim can’t make himself answer. Talking to Jason at the Christmas gala was one thing, that was a place where he’s more at ease than Jason, so that gave him a bit of a confidence boost. Talking to Robin after the rescue had been bracing, but Tim had been pretty much in shock, so he’d muddled through on autopilot somehow. 

But to have Robin come up to him in school, completely by choice, when his usual group is all sitting just a few trees over? That’s a whole other ballgame. 

Still, once what Jason actually said filters through Tim’s shock, he can’t help but snort. 

“If you want old geezer Doctor Who, you need to watch the classic ones, but those are pretty hard to find.” He pauses, thinks about it, and then adds. “Or just wait for the twelfth doctor, he’s pretty old, too. Not quite geezer, though. His episodes haven’t started airing yet, but I bet it’ll be great!” 

Jason grins, and takes a big bite out of his sandwich before replying. 

“Still, it’s a pretty interesting show, can’t believe I didn’t know it existed.” 

Tim shrugs and makes the conscious decision to just go with it. If Jason wants to have lunch with him for some unknown reason, Tim can live with that. 

“It’s not as popular here as it is in the UK, but it’s well made, and the time travel concept is interesting,” he says between bites. 

Jason hums, and settles in a bit more. “I don’t get the whole thing with the numbered Doctors, though. What’s up with that?”

It’s a reasonable confusion for first-time watchers. “I could explain, but, spoilers,” he says, a small grin pulling at his lips. “It’s explained in the first episode of the second season, though, so it doesn’t take too long to get to a point where it makes sense.” 

They fall to silence for a while then, eating and enjoying the weak bit of sunshine that makes sitting outside during late January bearable.

He fully expects Jason to leave for his friends at some point, but even after they’re both done eating, he remains next to him. 

“Why do you always sit outside during lunch?” Jason asks out of the blue, and Tim can feel his cheeks heat up a little. Hopefully he can pass it off as being cold. 

It’s not a question he can comfortably answer, as ‘I like watching you, because I know you’re Robin’ probably wouldn’t go over well. 

Time for a deflection. 

“Why do you?” 

Jason snorts. “Nuh-uh, nice try, squirt, but I asked first.”

It was worth a try. 

Plan B: lie your ass off. 

“It’s too loud in the cafeteria,” he says, carefully modulating his tone in the way he knows let’s him get away with lies to his teachers. 

He’s not sure if it’s working on Jason, though, since he can feel his eyes on him for a long time after that. 

Regardless, he doesn’t push for a more detailed answer. 

“It  _ is _ pretty loud in there sometimes. Stuffy, too.” Jason huffs and looks over to where he usually sits during his break. The table is empty now, and Tim wonders where Jason’s friends have gone. “It helps that it’s the only place the posers who just want to be friends with me because I have ‘Wayne’ in my name won’t follow me. Prissy little rich kids can’t handle the cold.” 

Which, fair. But then why the hell is he sitting next to Tim? Because he’s pretty sure the ‘prissy little rich kid’ label fits him like a glove. 

He sighs and pulls his legs up to the bench to hug his knees. 

“I guess that’s what I look like to you, too, right?” 

“What? No,” Jason says, and when Tim looks up he’s flapping his hands, shaking his head, and looking horrified by himself as he backtracks. “That sounded really bad. I don’t — I mean— You’re—”

Jason groans, and runs a hand through his hair. Tim feels his eyes widen in shock. He never thought he’d see  _ Jason _ of all people flailing like that. 

“You’re just… different,” Jason ends with, and when Tim’s eyebrows pull together, he hurries to add, “In a good way! You don’t care that I’m a Wayne, or that I grew up on the streets.” 

Well, he’s wrong. Tim does care, just in a different way from how other people probably do. It makes him feel guilty for some reason. 

Now that he’s started, though, it seems Jason has no intention of stopping. “And you’re clever. And funny. And you know how to properly appreciate Alfie’s food. And talking with you made the Christmas gala so much more bearable than I thought it would be. So you might be tiny, and you may be rich, but you are so far from prissy you don’t belong in the same sentence as the word, or the same book, really. And—” 

Jason stops the tirade as suddenly as he started it, his face flushed. Tim takes a few seconds to realize his mouth has fallen open, and closes it with a snap. He’s having a lot of trouble matching this stumbling teenager with the snarky Robin he sees at night, or even the unapologetic, somewhat crass Jason he’s used to. 

That’s not to say he doesn’t like it. Seeing this new side of Jason makes him so much more approachable. So much more human. 

Tim watches, but still says nothing. Jason looks away, shortly worrying his lower lip before his face sets into something somewhat more determined, and he looks back at Tim. 

“Point is, I don’t mind hanging out with you.” Jason’s voice is low, and it’s taken on an urgent quality that takes him by surprise. “Next time your friend isn't at school, and you got the creepy jock bullies eyeing you, come sit with me and my friends. Actually, consider that an open invitation. My friends are assholes, but they’ll like you, so you’ll be fine.” 

Wait, what? Tim feels a sudden rush of blood to his face. Had Jason noticed the way Mark Jenkins had looked at him? Or had he noticed how tense Tim had been, sitting on his own? 

A large part of him is flattered that Jason cares enough to intervene. A slightly larger part rears up in indignation. 

“Thanks, but I can take care of myself.” It comes out more hostile than he means it, but Jason seems to understand. 

He smiles, and ruffles his hair, again. 

“I know, kiddo, but you shouldn’t have to. Prevention is better than cure, and all that.”

Tim grumbles, but has to admit it would be easier to avoid a confrontation than win one. 

“Thanks,” he says. 

Jason hums, and they fall silent again. 

They spend the little time left of lunchbreak talking about the few episodes of Doctor Who Jason has seen by now, and if Tim notices Jason somehow shifted close enough for him to feel his warmth through his coat?

Well, Tim’s not gonna complain about that. 

-

“He spent his entire lunch break with me, just in case some bullies got it in their head to come after me while my friends weren’t there,” Tim whispers, his eyes locked on the angel statue. 

“That does sound like something our Master Jason would do.” The pride in Mr. Pennyworth’s voice is nearly palpable. “Though I doubt he spent time with you only for that reason, Mr. Drake, he also simply enjoyed your company. The few times he spoke of you, I heard nothing but praise.” 

He has a considerable amount of trouble believing that. “Why would he enjoy my company? I’m just that nerdy little freshman that skipped a grade who talked his ears of at a couple of galas.” 

Mr. Pennyworth doesn’t answer right away, and Tim can feel his eyes on him. He refuses to look away from the angel, though. 

“I don’t know what caused this doubt of Master Jason’s regard for you, but I can inform you it’s unfounded,” he says, and  _ that _ makes Tim pull his eyes from the grave at last, already gearing up to deny the claim. 

But the absolutely heartbreaking mixture of sadness and fondness he finds on the old valet’s face stops him in his tracks. This is the man who helped raise Jason for the last four years. If he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, who does?

“I— Thank you.” What else can he possibly say to that?

The sadness bleeds out of Mr. pennyworth’s expression a bit. 

“No,” he says, “Thank  _ you _ . For taking the time to listen to a despondent old man’s wistful tales.”

Mr. Pennyworth smiles, then, and continues with, “Now, let us converse on our mutual friend some more, and allow me to celebrate a passed loved one’s birthday with at least a modicum of joy.”

And well, Tim can’t really deny him that, can he?


	9. Broken Faith And Clock Tower Lockdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Tim doesn’t know what she sees beyond the obvious, but he gets a feeling that she doesn’t like it. _
> 
> _A feeling that’s confirmed when she sighs, and says, “This is the moment we contact Batman.”_
> 
> Tim wishes he could say that from then on, everything went according to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! 
> 
> I made it home from my trip in time to post this according to schedule! 
> 
> I'd like to point everyone to the new tags the story has aquired, as I've been thinking of adding them for a while now and I think you deserve a bit of a warning. 
> 
> This is a heavy one, btw... most of the rest of the chapters will be, we're setting up for the climax for part one. 
> 
> njw, did a wonderful job with the beta once again, even when I was pushing to have this done before I left on my trip, so major kudos for that^^.

Tears stream down Tim’s face, but he’s barely aware of it. It makes the outline of the angel statue in front of him blurry, and he can’t read the words on the platform it stands on. 

He doesn’t need to. He’s spent so much time staring at the words over the last few months that even without photographic memory, he’d probably be able to visualize them. 

Not that he’s even really looking. 

No, he’s too busy reliving the last few hours of his life. Over and over. 

His knees press into the dry, yellow grass, which itches at his skin. 

A soft pressure on his shoulder reminds him he isn’t alone, and if he had any measure of self control left, he’d be trying to reign the tears back. He’d summon the ghost of his mother’s voice, telling him that showing emotions in a situation like this is a weakness, to make it easier. 

He can’t bear to think of his parents right now.

And yet, it’s all he does. 

He hasn’t spoken yet, would say it’s because he feels self-conscious with the presence behind him. The truth is that he can’t seem to get the words out past the lump in his throat. Even if his tears aren’t accompanied by any sobs or gasps. 

Yesterday, he sat here and ate ice cream with Mr Pennyworth. For once looking forward to going home. The feeling of being watched didn’t go away at any point, but stories about Jason’s home life had distracted him sufficiently to be excited about seeing his parents. 

The lily he placed at the pedestal is still there, right next to Mr. Pennyworth’s roses.

His fingers tighten on the phone that’s one of the few bits of hope he’s got left to cling on to until it starts to hurt. Then, he carefully lightens the pressure. He can’t have it break. 

He blinks until the tears clear enough for him to read the name carved in marble. 

A deep breath finally allows him to force a few words out. 

“My parents’ plane was hijacked, and someone is keeping them hostage.”

-

When his parents don’t arrive according to schedule, Tim doesn’t think much of it. Private flights are usually on schedule, but with an unplanned flight like the one his parents are making, delays are to be prepared for, if not expected. 

Even with the long distance private jet his parents own, a refueling stop is inevitable, so while his mother sent him a message when they took off in Zanzibar, he has no way of knowing how long they were on the ground in Lisbon, where they usually refuel. 

The stop was planned to occur while it was around three a.m. Gotham time, so his parents wouldn’t have informed him of it, either. 

He’s about to leave for his next practice session with Barbara when the sound of the home phone ringing halts his steps.

No one ever rings on the home phone anymore. The office knows when his parents are out of town, and friends have learned the chances of reaching Jack and Janet Drake are infinitely higher when you try their cells. 

After a moment’s hesitation, Tim closes the front door and picks up the phone. 

“Hello?”

“Ah, Timothy. Thank goodness, I have no idea what I would have done if you hadn’t been home.” The voice on the other side is familiar in a background noise sort of way. “This is Jeremy Ross, your mother’s personal assistant.” 

That would explain it. 

“Yes, Mr. Ross. I remember you,” he says politely. “What can I do for you?” 

“Well, you see.” The man pauses, and Tim notes that he sounds stressed. “Your parents left Zanzibar in a hurry yesterday, as you should be aware. However, their plane never arrived in Lisbon.” 

His breath catches in his throat, and he can hear his heart beating in his ears. Stumbling, he makes his way to the living room and sinks onto one of the sofas. 

No.

No way. This isn’t happening. 

“Is there any indication the plane crashed or went somewhere else?” he asks. 

“No. Air Traffic Control lost contact and their signal somewhere above Sudan.” 

That’s not even halfway to Lisbon. 

“Timothy.” Mr. Ross sounds hesitant. “The office here was called half an hour ago. Someone hijacked the plane. They are keeping your parents hostage.” 

The world goes quiet. 

The pounding in his ears fades out, and the pressure that was building on his chest is gone. He sees the room in front of him in perfect clarity. Somewhere, in the back of his head, he knows he’ll be freaking out about this later. Right now, he has a feeling he can’t afford it.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asks.

Mr. Ross takes a deep breath. “They said not to involve any form of authorities and that they only want to discuss ransom with you directly.”

That makes no sense, and Tim tells Mr. Ross so. “I don’t have access to any of the company finances.” 

“I know, Timothy, and if they want money I can help you with that. But I don’t think that’s what these people are after.”

He thinks back to the last conversation he had with his mother. 

Please, no. 

“I think you might be right,” he whispers. 

“They said you can find a means to contact them in your mother’s safe.” 

He’s dropped the phone and is running for his mother’s study before he fully processes the statement, nearly running into the door before it clicks and he slides to a stuttering stop in front of it. 

Only his mother, father, and he know how to open that safe. If someone managed to put something in there, not only has someone been in the house, they were close enough at some point to see one of them open the safe. 

Despite that chilling thought, Tim’s hands don’t shake as he opens the door, half expecting to be ambushed. 

The room looks exactly like he last left it. He rushes through the protocols for opening the safe, pulling it open with more force than necessary. 

There, in the middle of the safe, on top of the folder of contracts he’d faxed to his mother about a month ago, lies a nondescript cellphone.

As he reaches out his left hand to grab it, he puts his right in his pocket. He grabs his own phone, and without pulling it out, rapidly presses the on button three times.

He doesn’t take his eyes off the new phone as he walks towards his dark room. 

It’s the only room in the house aside from the bathrooms that can only be unlocked from the inside and has no windows. The familiar smell of the development chemicals calms him slightly as he leans against the wall next to the door and allows his legs to give out on him. 

_ Okay _ , he thinks,  _ time to calm down, Tim. You activated the panic button, so Barbara knows something is up. Now do something about the situation.  _

His thumb hovers over the phone’s on button for a moment before he presses it. Every second it takes to boot up feels like an eternity to him. Every second is one too long. 

It does finish booting up eventually, showing that the phone is barren of everything except the most basic functions. 

There’s a single number in the contact list designated: ‘Call me’.

He does. 

It rings. Then rings again. 

Only to keep ringing until it drops into an empty voicemail. 

He considers calling again, or waiting until Barbara gets there. The choice is taken away from him when the phone in his hand vibrates and the screen lights up, signaling an incoming call from an unknown number. 

There’s no doubt, no moment’s hesitation, he just accepts the call. 

“Hello?”

“Good afternoon, Timothy,” a voice, distorted through some sort of device greets him. “I trust you found our gift in good order?” 

Really? Pleasantries? He has no time for this. 

“Where are my parents?” 

The person on the other side chuckles in a way that gives Tim chills. 

“Not stalling, I see,” they say, “good. That means you haven’t contacted the police. Wise choice.” 

His free hand clenches into a fist, and he replies through gritted teeth. “But you are. Who are you, and what do you want?” 

“I’m just someone trying to make conversation.”

“Lies.”

“No, truly, is that really so hard to believe?”

Tim doesn’t like where this conversation is going at all. 

“It is when someone decides to magic my parent’s plane out of the air while it’s flying over a desert. Where are they?”

A put upon sigh sounds over the connection. “Very well. Straight to business, even if it is unnecessarily unpleasant in my opinion. Your parent truly only have themselves to blame.” 

He’d be annoyed if he wasn’t so frightened. He knows better than to show the fear, though. “How do you figure that?”

“Well, if they had simply accepted my offer when I made it, none of this would have been necessary.” 

Offer? What offer? 

“What do you want?” Tim asks again. This is getting him nowhere. 

“Sadly, something only your parents can give me.”

“Then why the theatrics with the phone and the safe?”

It’s fifty-fifty what makes him break out in a cold sweat, the laugh, or the words. “Because your mother needed proof that I can reach you anywhere, Timothy. Keep the phone. Should your parents decide to see reason, you will be contacted for further instructions.” 

The tone sounds final, and Tim realises there’s a very important question left unanswered. 

“Wait!” he nearly shouts. “How do I even know they’re still alive?” 

There’s no answer, and when he checks the phone, the connection has been cut. 

Half a minute later, he receives a text message. 

_ I suppose you don’t.  _

-

The hand on his shoulder tightens, bringing him back to the here and now. 

He glances over his shoulder at Barbara, who gives him a sad smile. 

“Do you think you'll be able to find them?” he asks her. He hasn't allowed himself to ask her the question until now. 

She looks toward the statue and sighs. 

“I don't know, Tim,” she says, “I'll try my best, though.” 

He nods and looks back at the statue. 

It's more than he can expect from Batman, apparently. 

-

By the time Tim becomes aware of his surroundings again, someone is knocking at the door of the darkroom with a considerable amount of force. 

“Tim!” Barbara shouts through the door, “please tell me you’re in there!” 

He slowly lifts himself to his feet, blinking away tears he hadn't noticed had started flowing. His hands shake as he tries to turn the lock. 

The door opens to reveal Barbara with twin sticks (the type that he also saw in Dick’s apartment) held ready. 

Her arms lower when she sees him in a show of relief that only lasts until she gets a good look at his face. 

“Tim, are you hurt?” she asks, to which he shakes his head. 

“Did anyone try to hurt you?”

Another shake of his head. 

“Are we safe here?” 

A pause, then a slow shake of his head. 

“Alright, let’s get somewhere that is, then.” 

Tim can feel himself falling apart on the inside. His parents are missing, kidnapped, and he has a horrible feeling that it’s his fault. 

But Barbara made a good point. If the house isn’t safe, then they need to get somewhere that is. And since Tim has no idea where to start looking for a safe place if his home isn’t, he’ll have to trust Barbara to find one. 

It turns out the clocktower has a lockdown protocol, and a signal scrambler that prevents anyone who tries to bug the place from listening in. Barbara’s car has one, too.

It’s the only thing Tim registers her telling him on the ride over, too busy with keeping himself together. 

As a result, they arrive at the clocktower in a flash, where he stands in the middle of the room, teetering on the edge of falling apart as Barbara activates the lockdown protocols, and tells him how to get out in case of emergency. That there is a secret underground exit, and how to reach it. 

She’s all business for a while, he has no idea how long, until she stops in front of him. She leads him to the couch, and as he sits down, Tim notes with a momentary spark of interest she must be able to pull up parts of the civilian state of the war room individually. 

“Tim?” She catches his attention. “I think it’s time you told me what happened.”

He can’t help himself. Maybe it’s the kind, caring look on her face. Maybe it’s the relative feeling of safety provided by her presence and the nature of the clocktower. Maybe he’s just reached his limit. 

His vision goes blurry as the tears start flowing again. It’s not the silent, controlled crying he’s trained himself into, even through his panic attacks. 

No. It’s a gasping, sobbing, snotty affair. The kind that makes it hard to talk, hard to explain everything that’s happened.

He doesn’t know when Barbara moves herself from her chair to sit beside him on the couch, but strong arms wrap around him, and he finds himself in a warm embrace that amplifies the feeling of safety in a way he didn’t know was possible before now. 

It only makes him cry harder. 

Because he knows it’s just an illusion. He’s not safe, his parents aren’t safe. And he has the horrible feeling anyone he tells won’t be safe. 

Not even Barbara. 

“Tim, please,” she interrupts his thoughts. “I can’t help if you don’t tell me what’s going on.” 

He shakes his head. 

“No,” he manages to say. “No, I— I can’t. They’ll hurt you, too.”

It’s as much as he can force out right now. Acknowledging the truth, even in this vague way, out loud makes it real. Barbara must know, somehow, because she doesn’t say anything, despite tensing up slightly at his words. She doesn’t shush him or tell him to quiet down, just lets him cry until the sobs die down a little. 

“I know this is hard, Tim,” she says after the sobs have faded into hiccups, which in turn have died out. “But I need to know more. I can take care of myself, you know that. This is one of the safest places in Gotham. Whatever is happening, they can’t get to you here. Do you understand that?”

It’s hard to believe her. But he can also count the amount of people he’s met who are as capable as Barbara Gordon on one hand. And if there is a chance of finding his parents. Any at all. He needs to take a risk. 

He silently apologizes to Barbara for bringing her into danger, but he does nod. 

“Good,” she says, “now, first things first, who’s hurt? And who are ‘they’?”

It takes a few tries, and a lot of gentle goading from Barbara, but he manages to tell her what happened that morning, and what events led up to it. He starts crying again a few times, but she’s endlessly patient with him. Throughout it all, she keeps her arms around him, and strokes his hair when the sobs prevent him from talking. 

By the time she releases him to lift herself back into her chair, his head is aching, and he’s feeling hopeless. Barbara said he has the detective thing down, but he doesn’t even know where to start with this. It feels too big, too important. Like the sort of thing Ba—

His eyes shoot to where Barbara is quickly inputting commands into the main console, lists of flight manifests popping up. 

“Could we ask Batman to help?” 

It makes sense. If there’s anyone who can find out what it happening, it’s the greatest detective in the world. If there’s anyone who can keep himself safe from any threat, it’s Batman. 

Maybe something like this is even exactly what Batman needs to get back to himself a little. A distraction from his all encompassing hunt for Joker. 

The hitch in Barbara’s typing is minute, but there. 

“I don’t know if Bruce is the right person to look into this right now,” she says. 

Tim wants to argue it, make Barbara see that they need him. That Batman needs this case. To see he can do good. 

She doesn’t give him the chance. 

“Tim, think about it,” she says, “a world wide hunt to find two missing persons, is that the type of thing Bruce should handle right now?”

Shit. Of course it isn’t. 

On the third night he was practicing with Barbara, he’d scraped together the courage to ask what happened to Jason. She hadn’t wanted to talk about it, but after looking at him silently for a long while, she had opened the case file on it before leaving the room with a soft “promise me you’ll stop reading if it becomes too much”. 

Tim had nodded, but hadn’t at any point been able to tear his eyes away from the file. He’ll never forget the pictures of Jason’s broken body. 

He’s not sure if Barbara showed it to him because she knew he’d dig deep enough to find it eventually, or to show him just how dangerous the path she was opening for him really is. 

So he understands. Sending Batman on another wild goose chase around the globe will likely dig up a whole bunch of unpleasant memories. 

Still, this is his parents they’re talking about!

Barbara shoots an apologetic smile his way.

“If we come to a point where it becomes likely he’s absolutely necessary, we’ll contact him.” She pauses, distracted as multiple screens pop up at the same time, before she hums in that satisfied way Tim has learned means she’s successfully hacked her way into something. 

“For now, though, I will do what I can to find your parents,” she says, “And also make preparations for their extraction.” 

As she says it, two large holographic screens pop up. One shows a world map with a large red circle indicating where the plane could have flown based on the last known GPS location, the amount of fuel registered to the aircraft, and the make. It’s a discouragingly large area, covering most of Africa, southern Europe, and the Middle East. 

The other screen has a list of names, some of them Tim recognizes as heroes, with current locations and availability. 

Just thinking about how hard it will be to find any trace of his parents in an area this big makes him feel like falling apart all over again.

Barbara notices, somehow. 

“The circle will shrink as we get more information,” she says. “For a search like this, it’s best to start big.”

Tim leaves her to it as she rapidly starts typing again. Searching through arrival logs of potential airports, searching local news in the red area for anything out of the ordinary. 

After a while, Barbara grabs his attention again. 

“Can you give me that phone in a bit, Tim?” she says. “I want to set up a tracing system in case they call again.”

He looks down at his hands where he’s still holding the phone he found in his mother’s safe. 

Parting with it, however briefly, feels wrong. But anything they can do to narrow it down would help. He forces himself to stand up, and mechanically moves towards Barbara to hand over the phone. 

She takes it with a comforting smile. 

“This won’t take long,” she assures him. 

It’s true. Within a minute, she’s handing it back to him. 

“Next time they call, we can attempt a trace.”

Tim nods, and notices that she wants to say more, but is hesitating. 

That can’t be good. 

“What is it?” he asks warily. 

“If they do call,” Barbara says slowly, reluctantly, “make sure to ask for proof of life.” 

Tim stumbles a couple steps back until his calves hit the couch and he drops into it. 

It’s not a new notion. He’d thought it himself when the kidnapper wouldn’t let him know during the first phone call. But the fact that Barbara is making a point of mentioning it to him means that she thinks there’s a real chance they’re already too late. 

No wonder she doesn’t want Batman in on this. Barbara is afraid this is another race against the clock rigged for failure. 

It’s in that moment, when he thinks all hope is lost, that one of the automated search protocols pings with a result. 

A pop up shows a local news website in Arabic, a second screen rapidly translating. The translation isn’t perfect, but he gets the gist of it. 

Rumors of a crashed plane somewhere in a place called Ifrane National Park. 

Barbara is instantly back to business, with a few keystrokes highlighting a hot zone in their search area, telling him that Ifrane is apparently in Morocco. 

Then she turns to scroll through the contact list she’s had open on one of the other holographic screens. Tim notes the amount of heroes that are unavailable has increased, including all of the Titans. 

In any other situation, he’d ask if something big was happening. There’s a stray thought telling him that if there is, Barbara is obviously giving him priority over it. He stomps down the feeling of guilt that tries to grab hold at that thought. It’s not helpful, and he has a feeling Barbara wouldn’t appreciate it. 

She scrolls through the list twice before making a slight noise of irritation, and then presses a contact that clearly states ‘recreational leave of absence’. 

Well, at least Tim doesn’t have to worry about her holding back any of her resources, and he feels a flare of wonder as Black Canary accepts the call. 

“Hello?” she calls in a bubbly voice that he hadn’t expected from her somehow.

“Dinah,” Barbara says, “please tell me Barcelona is boring your brains out.” 

“If you’re the one asking? Always.” Black Canary sounds amused, but also more alert. “Why? You got somewhere better for me to be?” 

“Maybe. How’s your Arabic?” 

“Lousy.”

“You’ll have some time to brush up on the way.”

“Where do you need me?” 

As Tim tunes out of the rest of the conversation, a headache pounding behind his eyes, he takes a moment to wonder at the ease with which Barbara recruited Black Canary. A few words, and the world wide renowned hero is ready of action, no questions asked. 

What follows are four excruciating hours of waiting for Black Canary to get to her destination. Hours in which Barbara forces Tim to eat and drink something. In which he tries to go through some simple exercises to distract himself, but can’t. 

He goes over everything he knows about the situation a thousand times. Looking for something he missed. Listing the things he should have done different. 

He should have called his parents when they seemed to forget his birthday. He should have told Barbara about feeling watched. He should  _ definitely _ have told her about the odd phone call that led to his parents coming home. 

He can’t shake the feeling that this is his fault. That he did something to trigger this. 

And he did. 

He worried his mom enough to come home. With all the strange things that had been happening. With his birthday, and the phone calls, and that Mr.—

“Shit!” Tim whispers, but it’s out of nowhere enough to distract Barbara from where she’s still going over the data, looking for different angles. 

“I forgot! I can’t believe I forgot. Of course he’s involved.” He doesn’t notice when he stands up and starts pacing, burying his fingers in his hair and leaving them there. Nor does he notice Barbara’s eyes following him. “Oh my god, I was right. It’s all my fault and now this man has my parents and I did this and—”

“Tim!” Barbara’s voice breaks through his line of thought, freezing him in place. “What happened, what do you remember?” 

Slowly, he forces himself to look at her. 

“There was this man, Mr. Head,” he says. “He claimed to be the principle of a boarding school in England. Mom said he wanted to give me a scholarship, but neither of us has ever heard of him.” 

Barbara frowns and turns back to her console, already searching what she can find on this man. 

“How’d he know about you?” she asks. 

“I don’t know, that was the problem. And by that time, I’d been feeling watched for weeks.” He rushes to explain, and he starts pacing again. “At first, I thought it was you, but it just felt so wrong. And then my mom and I discovered someone deliberately made sure we didn't have contact on my birthday. And that someone intercepted our mail, and that’s when they decided to come home and it's all my fault.”

“Tim, no.” As he passes by Barbara's chair, her hand snatches his wrist, forcing him to stop. “None of this is your fault.”

“But this guy is doing this to get to me!” 

“You don't know that,” she says, “it could be a coincidence.” 

She doesn't believe it, he can hear it in her voice. 

“Barbara, please don't—” 

“I'm not lying,” she interrupts him, “nor am I giving you false hope. We don't know what's connected and what isn't. CEOs of big companies tend to make enemies whether they want to or not. We don't have enough evidence to follow a single trail yet.”

She releases his wrist in favor of placing her hand on his upper arm. “In a way, this is a good thing, Tim. Because now we have another lead to follow.”

He stays next to her as she looks up Mr. Head and the boarding school. 

It checks out, on the surface, but there are a few oddities upon closer inspection. 

Mr. Head has no social media whatsoever. Which, admittedly, isn't all that weird for a septarian, but there are no pictures of him online, at all.

Not on the school website, not in local newspaper articles, nothing. 

The school does have a scholarship program, but it hasn't ever accepted a foreign student, and students need to go through an extensive selection process overseen by a board. 

Mr. Head is not part of that board. 

The truly alarming thing is that a great deal of the scholarship students, especially the ones that excel in the school, tend to disappear after graduation. 

They are elbow deep in research when Black Canary opens her comm line. 

“Oracle?” she calls, causing Barbara to turn to the other screen. 

“Yes, Dinah, I hear you.” 

“I found your jet.” 

Tim's breath freezes in his lungs. 

“And?” Barbara asks. 

“Well, it’s in pieces. And it  _ looks _ like the one you were looking for. The model checks out and I found some luggage with passports for Mr. and Mrs. Drake,” Black Canary reports, “No bodies, though, and I don't think it crashed. There's a suspiciously conveniently placed cliff someone could have rigged it to drive off. There's not much left of the cockpit, so I can't say for sure, but that's what it looks like.”

Barbara hums. “And on top off the cliff?” 

“On my way there, will update when I get there. It's a bit of a hike.” 

“Alright, thank you, Dinah.” Barbara says, “Oracle out.” 

She falls silent after that, and Tim watches as the red circle on the map pops out of existence, a small marker in Morocco replacing it. 

Then, she sits completely still for a while, looking back and forth between her screens. 

Tim doesn’t know what she sees beyond the obvious, but he gets a feeling that she doesn’t like it. 

A feeling that’s confirmed when she sighs, and says, “This is the moment we contact Batman.”

With the way she says it, and the fact that she didn’t want to at first, Tim feels suddenly apprehensive. 

And yet, a part of him also relaxes. As if everything will be okay, because Batman will be involved. As if there is nothing his hero can’t fix. 

It’s a feeling that’s been fading for months, every single incident chipping away at Tim’s formerly blind faith bit by bit. 

He doesn’t know when he first wavered in the belief that Batman can fix anything. Maybe it started the moment he first stood at Jason’s grave on that sunny day. 

It doesn’t matter. Right now, he needs that belief more than he’s needed anything ever before. 

So he scrapes the broken pieces of what it used to be in a pile and glues them together with the sheer force of his will. 

“Okay,” he says when realises Barbara’s waiting for an answer. 

She nods and turns back to her screens, opening a separate contact list which shows only the bats. 

“Fair warning,” she says, “this probably won’t be pretty.”

She takes a deep breath, before clicking Batman’s contact icon. 

It connects almost instantly. 

“I told you not to use this frequency, Oracle,” he growls, there really is no other word for it. 

Barbara isn’t affected by it. “Yeah, well. I’ve heard from reliable sources that you ignore all other forms of contact, so here we are.”

Batman doesn’t like that very much. “If Dick thinks I will listen if he makes you give a message, he’s mistaken.” 

Tim flinches a bit and Barbara sends him a sympathetic glance. 

“I meant Alfred,” she says. 

A short silence. 

“What do you want?”

“I have intel for you.” It’s clear Barbara is used to this treatment, and Tim can’t help but wonder how long he’s been like this to her. 

A short grunt is apparently all that can be expected as confirmation that Batman is listening, because Barbara takes it as her go-ahead. 

“Yesterday around four p.m., the Drake Industries private jet went offline over Sudan while en-route from Zanzibar to Lisbon, with both the CEO and CFO, Mr. and Mrs. Drake, aboard. Today at eleven a.m., their son, Tim Drake, was sent a phone from an unknown source and called by their captors. No ransom demand was made, no proof of life given, just a ‘don’t call the cops and wait for further instructions.’ Black Canary found the jet crashed in a national park in Morocco, no bodies.”

“Additionally, their son has been followed by multiple individuals for months, and Mr. and Mrs. Drake have recently declined a suspicious offer of scholarship for their son. The phone used to contact Tim was found in Mrs. Drake’s private safe that only three people know how to open, two of which are the captive individuals, while the other is Tim.” 

“And what does this have to do with Joker?” Batman asks when she is done, making Tim’s breath hitch. 

Now  _ there’s _ a scary thought. 

Barbara frowns. “Hopefully, nothing.”

“Then why are you wasting my time with it?” 

“Because,” Barbara says through gritted teeth, “there’s a fourteen year old boy whose parents have been kidnapped, and I could really use your help on this one.” 

A second of silence. Two. 

“No.” 

The carefully glued together mental statue of faith falls to pieces. 

“Excuse me?” Barbara says, but she doesn’t sound surprised. 

“I’m busy. Capturing the Joker will save hundreds, if not thousands,” he says, and it sounds almost reasonable. Almost, but not quite. “I can’t afford to drop that for anything low priority.” 

Tim is shaking in his shoes as the words ‘low priority’ echo in his head. 

Barbara is shaking in her seat. “I’d argue the higher priority case is the one that’s time sensitive. Joker can barely walk and feed himself since his last encounter with you. It will take time to plan his next step, and you’re not anywhere close to capturing him. Jack and Janet Drake have been missing for twenty-seven hours, and this is obviously not a normal ransom hunt.” 

Seconds stretch into a minute until, “The answer is still no.” 

The line goes dead. 

It’s a strange feeling, when a core belief shifts, but that’s what’s happening to Tim in that moment when his hero, the man he’s admired for most of his life, does the one thing he never thought he’d do. 

Willingly turn his back on someone in need. 

He doesn’t know when his legs gave out on him, but his knees hurt and he’s sitting on the ground when he’s pulled out of his head by the signal of an incoming call, which Barbara accepts, despite the anger still radiating off her. 

“I do apologize for his behavior, Miss Barbara,” Mr. Pennyworth’s voice sounds over the speakers. 

Barbara sighs and takes her glasses off so she can rub her eyes. 

“As long as you keep apologizing for him, he won’t learn, Alfred.” She sounds tired, drained, and Tim can’t help but feel like he pushed her towards it. 

Mr. Pennyworth doesn’t sound much better. 

“I fear you may be right,” he says, “but if there’s anything I can do to help with the Drakes, do let me know.” 

“Thanks.” Barbara manages a tired smile. “Just keep Bruce out of our way. If he changes his mind, he’s welcome. But I don’t want him making things more difficult than they have to be.”

Mr. Pennyworth’s voice is grave as he answers. “I shall endeavor to keep him from bothering you. Anything else?”

“Actually,” Barbara says slowly, turning to look down at Tim. “If you could watch my search engines for a bit, and accept Black Canary’s report, if she calls before we get back, I think Tim and I could use some air.” 

“Please don’t tell me Mr. Drake heard that exchange.” He doesn’t think he’s ever heard the butler sound that tired before. 

“Do you want me to try and lie to you, Alfred?” Barbara asks. “We both know that never ends well for anyone.”

“Sometimes, I wish one of you would get away with it. They do say ignorance is bliss.” 

Something about that strikes Tim the wrong way. 

“Ignorance feels more like a curse right now,” he whispers, but it’s loud enough for the microphone to pick up. 

“I would assume so, Mr. Drake,” Mr. Pennyworth agrees easily. “Be strong, my boy. And make sure to let me know if you need anything.” 

Barbara and Mr. Pennyworth talk for a bit longer, discussing safety measures for going outside. Tim doesn’t listen to it. Can barely wrap his head around the fact that Batman refuses to even try to help him. 

A hand lifting his chin forces him to look up to Barbara, and he realizes she’s been talking to him for a while. 

“What do you need?” she asks, her tone gentle despite the fact that she’s clearly asked the same question before. 

He wasn’t expecting this question, and his first instinct is to go with the obvious ‘my parents home.’ But Barbara isn’t a miracle worker, she can’t just conjure them out of thin air, so what does he need in this moment?

It’s hard to think about it properly, his mind overflowing with memories that are caught in a spiderweb of thoughts and feelings. He needs to sort that out.

“Jason,” he hears himself say, and Barbara’s face falls at the word. “I need to go talk to Jason.” 

-

It’s dark in the cemetery, and Barbara’s hand still hasn’t left his shoulder. She’s carrying the signal scrambler that prevents the kidnappers from listening in while he’s talking. 

It’s weird, talking like this while someone is around, and it took him a while to get started, but Barbara didn’t interrupt him at any point other than a light squeeze to show support here and there. 

Nor is there any judgement in her tone when she says, “You know, when you said you needed to talk to Jason, this is not what I expected.” 

Tim shrugs. 

“It helps me think,” he says, “I know he can’t hear me, but it calms me down. Makes me feel closer to him.” 

Barbara hums. “I don’t think I would have understood before, but seeing you here, I think I can see it.”

He smiles gratefully, and leans into the pressure of her hand a bit. 

“Tim?” she asks. 

“Hm?”

“What Bruce said, about low priority. He’s wrong.” 

He doesn’t answer. 

The worst part of it is that he understands it, at some level. Like a balance where the lives of the many weigh more than the lives of the few. It’s just not the kind of scale he would have expected Batman to use. 

In the end, it doesn’t matter. Tim has always known he’s not important, insignificant. Batman refusing to help just confirms it. 


	10. Last Words And Fateful Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“We’re too late.”_
> 
> Tim thinks he’ll hear those words echo in his soul for the rest of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!
> 
> Sorry this took a while, it was an.... let's says adeventure... writing this chapter.   
Fair warning, it's one of the darkest ones the fic will have, definitely the darkest so far. 
> 
> njw honestly did a great job, not just with the beta, but also with hearing me out whenever I got stuck, so thanks for that!

The sound of shovel fulls of soil impacting on wood follows Tim as he slowly walks towards Jason’s grave. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep without hearing it for a long time to come, but it’s not like he’s been getting much sleep in the first place so maybe it doesn’t matter. 

His steps feel mechanical as he makes his way through the cemetery. The grass is dry and yellow beneath his dress shoes. 

It’s the first time he approaches the angel statue from behind. He’s never had a reason to go deeper into the cemetery before. 

He wonders if this is something he’ll get used to. He’s bone tired, and when he reaches the grave, he finds he no longer has the energy to continue walking. Instead, he leans against the side of the pedestal the angel stands on, and slowly slides to sit in the grass. 

He’s ruining the suit he’s wearing, but he doesn’t care. Even if he somehow changes his mind about burning it later today, he’ll probably never wear it again. 

Everything about the last week suddenly fills Tim with a strong desire for normalcy, so the first thing he says is, “Hey Jason.”

The familiar greeting calms him a little, and while he’s alone for the first time since Barbara pulled him out of his dark room, he doesn’t feel like he’s falling apart. 

-

Barbara and Tim have been back at the clock tower for barely fifteen minutes when Black Canary calls in to report her findings on top of the cliff. 

“There are definite signs that the jet landed here first,” she says, and the pictures she uploads showing a clear set of tracks support the claim. “The tracks go all the way up to the edge of the cliff. Some scuff marks near the edge suggest that whoever rigged it to drive off jumped out just in time.”

Barbara hums as she adds the report to the slowly growing pile of information they’ve gathered. 

“No bodies here, either. And I found a second set of tracks about a hundred yards north of here where a second jet landed and took off.”

“Could it have been the same jet, landing twice to give us a false trail?” Barbara asks. 

“Well, I don’t pretend to be any kind of expert on the makes and models of aircrafts,” Black Canary replies, “but I measured the distance between both sets of tracks, and the distance between the wheels was smaller on the second set of tracks, so I’d say the Drakes were moved to a second jet to better hide the trail.” 

“Any footprints to support that theory?” 

“Plenty. I can’t tell you how long it’s been, but it’s been a while, and the wind has messed up some of the prints. I  _ think _ there are at least four sets of footprints of some type of combat boots, might be more but I’d have to measure them for the exact sizes. There are also two sets from heels and one set from dress shoes.” 

Tim’s breath hitches with hope. That could mean his parents were at least still walking when they were forced to change means of travel. 

Barbara clicks through the Drake jet flight plan. “That’s good,” she tells Black Canary. “The boarding information shows one female flight attendant joined the Drakes on their flight, so that adds up. I’m a bit worried about the lack of additional sets of dress shoes, though. What happened to the Drake jet pilots?”

“Good question,” Black Canary says, “I have another one for you. Are regular private flight pilots capable of landing a commercially built jet on a rocky cliff in the middle of a mountain range without damaging it?”

Barbara frowns next to Tim, and pulls up the resumes of the three pilots manning the Drake jet. 

He knows it’s not the first time she’s looked into the pilots, but it’s the first time he’s paying enough attention to what she’s doing to register the names and faces. 

His eyes widen, and he taps Barbara’s shoulder to get her attention. 

“One second, Dinah, I have another call coming in,” she lies smoothly before muting the call and turning to Tim. “What did you see?” she asks.

He doesn’t take his eyes off the screen displaying three pictures side by side. 

“I know my parents’ pilots,” he says, “they always hire the same ones, and the one time mom and dad took me on a flight to Star City, they let me in the cockpit. These are not those pilots.”

Barbara starts typing rapidly again as soon as he’s done speaking. A few seconds later, a second set of pictures pops up. 

“You’re right,” she says. “The three pilots your parents usually employ work through a private flight agency. All three of them are normally paid to be on standby should DI need the jet to go somewhere short notice. Two days ago, your mom okay-ed a request to use them for a short notice emergency flight. Records show this happens on a semi-regular basis, but the timing is suspicious.” 

With that, she turns back to her screen and clicks the connection to Black Canary back to active. 

“Dinah, I have reason to believe the pilots were in on it,” she says. 

Black Canary hums. “That  _ would _ explain a few things. Want me to go see if I can find any prints on the jet?” 

“In a bit. First, I want you to…” Tim is vaguely aware of Barbara listing a set of intel she wants Black Canary to gather at her current location. Things like exact shoe sizes and pictures of the jet tire tracks. 

He tries to focus on the fact that there are hints that his parents were at least well enough to walk themselves when they changed jets, and not on the fact that they have no clue what type of jet took them afterwards or where it could have flown. 

He wonders why Barbara is taking this much effort for him for a split second. After all, if Batman didn’t think it was important enough, why would she? Then he thinks back to Batgirl, as she was grinning down at Robin while they bumped their fists together. How he’d once seen her comfort a working girl. 

He’s not being fair to her, he realizes. Barbara isn’t in this because of some sort of tragedy. She’s in it because she thought about it, and she’s decided this is the best way she can do good. Of course, she’d help him. 

Movement on the screens brings his attention back, and he sees several pictures being uploaded, along with the data Black Canary is gathering on site. It appears Barbara is using it to determine the type of jet used to take his parents away from Morocco. 

“O…” Black Canary says slowly, dragging the vowel out.

“Hm?”

“I don’t like it. This is a very well planned operation. There is no way these guys aren’t professionals. Whoever is doing this, I have a feeling it might be a decent sized organization.” 

Barbara sighs. “I agree. There are too many organizations who have the means to do this, but DI has no history of ties with any of them.”

“Well, it’s not like we’re expecting these situations to be easy.” A small huff sounds over the connection. “I think I’ve got everything here, I’ll go back to the jet and see if I can’t lift some prints.”

Tim spends two hours watching Barbara work. She uses the info Black Canary found to narrow the list of possible jet models down to three types, then sets to tracking any type of odd flight patterns used by those jets in the last thirty hours. 

While the algorithm she sets up searching the flight data works through mountains of data, she looks further into Mr. Head. Searches for any owned properties, travel data, weird expenses, but there’s nothing there. 

After a while, she makes him sit on the couch with a mug of hot chocolate. She doesn’t tell him to go sleep, or that he’s too close to this to watch. Neither does she tell him everything will be alright, hasn’t told him that a single time from the beginning. 

He thinks that’s because she knows she can’t promise him that. She can’t guarantee it will work out. She  _ does _ tell him she’ll do everything she can, and he tries to appreciate that. 

It’s hard to appreciate it, hard to sit still like she told him to when he has no idea if his parents are still alive. It’s even harder not to feel guilty when Barbara redirects multiple calls for assistance from around the globe. Even when Nightwing calls from San Francisco, she only gives him minimum effort before going back to searching for Tim’s parents. 

The hours blend together, and Tim can do little more than watch Barbara work. He brings her coffee a couple of times, and she smiles at him faintly when she notices him replacing the mugs. He’s never felt so powerless in his life. 

His parents are in danger, possibly because of him, and he can’t do  _ anything _ . 

At some point, Black Canary contacts them to tell them there were no prints, and that the Moroccan authorities arrived, so she had to pull back. Barbara tells her to make her way to an airport and stand by for now. 

Shortly after that, the algorithm finally pings with a result, indicating a flight from Madrid to Stromboli took nearly nine hours when it usually only takes two and a half. 

Enough time to fly to Morocco and back. 

Tim is glued to the back of Barbara’s chair as she goes through further flight plans for the small jet. It arrived at a private airport on Stromboli at one a.m. the day before, more than twenty-four hours ago, and only took a refuelling stop before continuing to Moscow where it landed and has remained. 

“Do your parents have any business associates that operate out of Moscow?” Barbara asks. 

He shakes his head, before realising she can’t see him where he’s standing behind her. 

“No,” he says. “Not that I’m aware of, at least.” 

He bites his lower lip, a question on the tip of his tongue. He doesn’t want to distract Barbara, but if it can help…

“Is Stromboli a regular refueling stop?” he asks. 

Barbara pauses in her typing and clicks back to the airport flight manifests. 

“No.”

So what were they doing on Stromboli? 

Tim looks at the arrival and departure information distractedly, trying to remember what he knows about Stromboli other than the fact that it’s an island near Italy. The list of departures is grayed out, only the private flight to Moscow highlighted. 

It’s not a very busy airport. Just a couple of private flights, most of them to somewhere in Italy or the rest of Europe. There’ve been nine flights in the last twenty-four hours. The last one left about two hours ago, but it’s the one before that which captures Tim’s attention. 

“G.I.A., that’s the code for Gotham International Airport, right?” he asks. 

Barbara looks up from where she’s going through a list of departures from Moscow. 

“Yes, why?” 

Tim doesn’t answer, just points at the flight details of yet another private jet departing Stromboli at ten p.m. with a flight plan to Gotham. 

It could be a distraction. It probably is with how well this has been planned so far, but Tim can't help but feel like they are finally getting somewhere. 

Twenty minutes later, he’s proven right when Barbara pulls up security footage of his mom being none too gently forced aboard the jet. The video quality leaves something to be desired, but he’s sure it’s his mom. She looks terrible, her make-up, hair and clothes are messed up, and Tim thinks there may be a bruise on her cheek, but she walks without assistance. 

He takes a deep breath. His mother was alive as of five hours ago. 

None of the other people walking around loading large crates or boarding the jet are recognisable. All are wearing generic combat armor, and balaclavas. As the footage keeps running, and the figures on screen start closing the hatch, he frowns, a terrible pressure on his chest building. 

“Where’s dad?” He doesn’t want to know the answer, doesn’t want to ask the question in the first place. And yet, he  _ needs _ to know the answer. 

Barbara doesn’t give him one. Not right away. 

“Could they have separated them?” 

Her eyes bore through him when she looks at him. 

“They could have,” she says. 

“But you don’t think that’s it.” 

She doesn’t need to say it, the look on her face says it all. 

No. no. no. 

“I’m sorry, Tim,” she says as he stumbles back until his knees hit the couch and he falls onto it. “I could be wrong, but that’s what it looks like.” 

He doesn’t see, doesn’t hear anything over the rushing in his ears. He locks down and waits for his breath to go shallow, but it doesn’t happen. 

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, but when soft hands pick up his, Barbara is in front of him, and he’s covered in a blanket. 

“We’re not giving up just yet,” she says. “I have the GPS location of the jet your mother boarded, it’s still on route to Gotham as planned, and Dinah is boarding her own flight back here as we speak.” 

She sits with him for a while after that, just holding his hands. He feels guilty about keeping her from working, but just having her near, knowing he’s not completely alone, might just be the only thing keeping him together. 

So he lets it happen. Allows Barbara to hold his hands, and then allows her to guide him to lie down on the couch. And eventually, the exhaustion of the day settles in, and he allows himself to slip away into a restless sleep. 

His dreams are vague wispy things, filled with dread, and running, and the inescapable feeling of racing against a clock. 

In the end, though, it’s not the nightmares that wake him, but a loud curse. 

“Damn it!” 

Tim doesn’t think he’s heard Barbara cuss before, and this time, it’s even accompanied by banging her fists on the desk. 

He shoots upright, instantly alert. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. 

Barbara’s gaze whips to him, her eyes widening as if she’d forgotten he was there. 

“Tim!” she says, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” 

At that moment there’s a beep from her system and she turns back to her near frantic typing. He’s never seen her type quite that fast or feverishly before. 

Dread overtakes him as he fights to make his legs carry him over to the computer hub. 

The biggest screen shows a map with multiple real time flight paths, one of which is giving a signal lost warning. 

“You lost the jet’s signal,” he whispers. 

It’s odd, every time something changes that makes the prognosis of the situation turn for the worse, Tim responds differently. He’s been through shock, panic, and adrenaline-fueled focus. He’s cried and screamed and shut himself down completely. 

This time, none of the above happens. This time, he falls into an eerie calm. The fear and anger and grief can’t touch him when he simply chooses not to feel it. And why would he? When there's stuff that needs to be done.

Everything in Barbara’s posture screams her frustration. “Yeah, well. That particular type of jet doesn’t have any type of stealth mode, so I’m calling in the big guns.” 

With barely any loss in speed of typing with her left hand, she scrolls through an almost completely red contact list until she reaches one in particular and presses it. 

It takes only two rings for Mr. Pennyworth to pick up. 

“Good morning, Miss Barbara, I hope the search is going well,” he says.

Barbara gets straight to the point, which Tim appreciates. “It was until I lost signal on my target. I need to borrow a WE satellite, Alfred.” 

“I will inform Mr. Fox,” is the immediate reply.

“Thanks, Alfred.”

A soft click, a scroll through the contact list and a tap later, Barbara is speaking to someone else. 

“Mr. Bard,” she says, and Tim frowns. Isn’t that one of the detectives in GCPD? She promised she wouldn’t contact them! 

He knows better than to interrupt her, though. 

“The private jet just went offline. There’s still a chance it will land at your location, but I’m not expecting it to. I’m sorry if I wasted your time.”

“Not to worry, Oracle. It’s not like I have any other cases at the moment,” Mr. Bard answers, and Tim carefully distances himself from the flash of sadness he feels upon seeing the man’s first name on his contact icon. “Want me to hold position, just in case?”

Barbara’s smile as she answers is wistful in a way he can’t fully comprehend, and he’s not sure he wants to. 

“Yes, that would be great,” she says. “I’ll contact you if I find it.”

When that connection closes, he speaks up before she has a chance to click the next contact. 

“You contacted GCPD?” He doesn’t even sound accusing, though the flat tone he uses makes Barbara look at him quizzically, anyway.

“What do you—” she starts, before comprehension appears in her eyes. “Oh, you mean Jason Bard. He doesn’t work for GCPD anymore, he’s a private detective now.” 

Tim’s sure she sees his flinch when she says the name, but he ignores it to frown at her. 

“Doesn’t that still count as ‘any form of authority’?”

“That’s the thing about private detectives. The good ones know how to stay under the radar. Mr. Bard is very good.”

When he doesn’t answer her, she taps the next contact. One very firmly bordered red.

“Babs?” Dick’s voice sounds unsure, or maybe surprised is the better way of putting it. 

“Hey, Dick.” 

“Not that it’s not great to hear from you, but I’m kinda in the middle of something.”

Barbara sighs. “I know. And I wouldn’t have called if I didn’t have a major situation here as well. Think you can come help out when you’re done there?”

A short pause. “Last time I was in Gotham, Batman pretty much kicked me out,” Dick says. “What makes you think he won’t this time?”

“He’s too busy chasing his own tail trying to capture Joker to even notice you’re here.” Barbara scoffs. “Besides, he lost the right to a vote on any other vigilantes entering Gotham when he decided not to look into a high profile kidnapping case over a cold one.” 

“Shit.” 

“At this point, I would call Superman if he wasn’t busy fighting off kryptonite poisoning, courtesy of one Mr. Luthor.” 

The frustration is evident when Dick sighs again. 

“What the hell is going on?” he asks. “It would be one thing if it was just us and Superman. But from what I hear, the JLA and JLE are both dealing with crisis situations as well. I keep half expecting to be informed the Green Lantern Corps need all earth based lanterns for something.”

Tim’s gaze is involuntarily pulled to the mostly red contact list. 

“I’m hoping it’s a coincidence, but…” 

She lets the end to that sentence hang in the air around them. Tim agrees. It’s too many things at once to be unconnected. 

Question is whether his parents’ kidnapping is connected as well. 

“I’ll call as soon as we’re done here,” Dick breaks through his thoughts. 

As he says it, a large notification pops up. 

_ WES2 access granted, override code LF1956. Activate manual control? _

“Thanks, Dick,” Barbara says as she clicks ‘yes’ and then starts typing as satellite footage appears. “I’ll let you get back to it.”

As she starts going through the satellite footage, Tim makes his way mechanically to the kitchen. 

He’s not hungry. Doubts he could keep anything down if he tried to eat. But Barbara has been up all night, by the looks of it. 

He goes through the steps of making a sandwich and a cup of coffee on autopilot. Doesn’t think of anything, steers his mind away from any topic it tries to latch onto. He feels numb, but that feels safe, so he doesn’t try to change it. 

Barbara’s voice shocks him out of his funk when he places the plate and mug on the little desk beside her. 

“You okay, Tim?” 

When he meets her eyes, her eyebrows are pulled together in a frown. 

Tim shrugs, and watches the frown deepen. 

“Aren’t you going to eat anything, yourself?” 

Just the idea of it makes his stomach lurch and his throat tighten, so he shakes his head. 

She doesn’t like that, but before she can say any more, Tim speaks up, his voice still flat. 

“I’m not the important thing here. Don’t worry about me.”

Barbara reaches for him then. Maybe to take his hands, maybe to pull him into a hug. And while she’s been nothing but supportive since she found him in his dark room, he takes a step back to get out of her reach. 

He doesn’t think he can handle being comforted right now. 

“Please don’t,” he says. “Go back to searching. I’m fine.” 

She pulls her hand back into her lap, but doesn’t appear to be done with him. 

“You’re blocking your emotions,” she says, and it’s not a question.

Tim answers anyway. “I need to.”

“That’s not a healthy coping mechanism.” 

“I know.”

Barbara keeps looking at him, and it feels like she’s staring right through him. 

It makes him want to fidget. 

“Right now, I get it,” she says. “But I want you to promise me you’ll let yourself feel it after it’s over. No matter the outcome.”

Now it’s Tim’s turn to frown. 

“Why?” 

“Because you’ll need your emotions to deal with today, otherwise you’ll never get past it.” 

It occurs to him that they’re wasting time. Barbara should be searching for the jet, not worrying about his mental well-being. 

He doesn’t feel much for the promise she’s trying to extract from him either, but it’s the fastest way to get her back on track. 

“Okay,” he says. 

Barbara’s eyes narrow, as if sensing duplicity, but she doesn’t get a chance to say anything else on the topic. 

One moment, they are staring at each other with the many screens of Oracle’s system whirring away in the background. The next, a click sounds, the system freezes, and Batman’s voice comes over the speakers. 

“Who gave you permission to hack into my property?” 

Barbara turns back to her system, and with a few keystrokes, unfreezes the system. Her voice sounds dangerous when she speaks. 

“If you’d taken longer than two seconds to look at the satellite permission status, you’d have seen I didn’t hack it,” she says. “I was given access.”

Batman ignores the answer. “Whatever you’re doing with it, stop.” 

“You don’t control me, B.”

“Don’t test me, Barbara.” 

“I’m not testing you,  _ Bruce _ ,” she hisses. “I’m doing your goddamn job. Now if you’re quite done, fuck off so I can get back to it.” 

With that, she forcefully closes the connection. 

After that, she contacts Mr. Pennyworth again, who promises to try and keep Bruce occupied. 

It works, sorta. There are no more system freezes, but Barbara tells Tim that’s not because of a lack of trying. 

After a while, he feels like he should be doing more, and when he asks if he can help, she looks at him for a long moment before pulling up an extra holographic display in front of the couch he’s been sitting on. 

Hours creep by silently as Tim scours real-time footage, and Barbara goes through a still from the moment the jet disappeared, trying to pick up the trail. The silence is only disturbed by the occasional communication incoming from one of Barbara’s contacts. Jason Bard contacts them to confirm the jet never landed at Gotham International Airport, and Black Canary calls to ask for a status update. 

Tim is drinking tea and trying to find it in him to eat a sandwich at the kitchen counter when Barbara addresses him. 

“I’ve sent you a set of coordinates,” she says. “Can you check if there is anything there right now?” 

“Sure.” 

He walks back to the couch and shifts the image to the abandoned private air strip outside Gotham the coordinates point to. His breath catches when he sees the jet on the screen. 

“You found it,” he whispers, before glancing up at Barbara. “It’s there, you’ve found it.”

“It’s been there for three hours and there’s a good chance they are long gone, but there was no other jet there when it arrived, so they probably went into Gotham.” 

It’s a positive turn of events. They are a little closer to saving his parents (he refuses to think of his dad as dead just yet), but he can’t shake the feeling something will go wrong. 

Barbara contacts Mr. Bard again and asks him to investigate the jet location, hoping to gain some idea of where the passengers went, but when he gets there, the place is deserted. Just an empty jet, an equally empty hangar, and a small traffic control tower. 

The tarmac doesn’t lend itself to tracking, and the dirt road leading to it doesn’t appear to have been used in a long time. 

Barbara finds footage of people coming out of the jet and entering the hanger, but they never come back out. 

“I’m getting the urge to start looking for a hidden entrance to a tunnel or something,” Mr. Bard says after going over the hangar for the third time. 

There are no blueprints of the old structure for Barbara to pull up, and they have no idea what to look for. 

“I’ve certainly seen stranger things before,” she answers. 

The waiting would be driving Tim crazy, but he’s still stuck in his numb state, and it all just sort of flies by him at this point. 

It’s been forty-eight hours since his parents went missing, halfway across the globe, and now he can only sit and wait while others try to find them. 

When Black Canary calls to inform them she’s landed about an hour later, they still don’t have anything to go on. Barbara is starting to get frustrated. She goes over the satellite footage over and over, tries to find odd movement amongst Gotham’s crime families and gangs, and keeps an eye on locations that would function well for keeping hostages. 

She finds absolutely nothing. 

When the phone left to charge on a table next to the couch starts ringing, it doesn’t register with Tim at first. He scrambles to pick it up after it does. 

“Hello?” he says, making eye contact with Barbara for only a second before she turns away to trace the call. 

“Hello again, Timothy.” The voice is still modulated, but he’s fairly certain it  _ is _ the same man as last time. 

“It seems your mother has finally seen reason.” 

Not his parents. His mother. 

The careful calm that Tim’s been cultivating creaks and cracks around him, like a crystal ball keeping his emotions at bay. 

“Does that mean I get to speak to her?” he asks. 

He’s vaguely aware of Barbara tracking the signal as it’s bounced through multiple conduits. 

“No, you get to follow my instructions to the letter,” the man says. 

Tim grits his teeth, trying to stay calm as his anger flows through the cracks. 

“I won’t do anything until you give me proof my mother is alive.” 

The chuckle from the other side of the line raises goosebumps on his skin. 

“Just your mother? You’re better than I thought. You’ll have to tell me how you figured that out sometime.”

Tim closes his eyes against the tears. He knew from the moment they saw them lead his mother, but not his father from one jet to another that this was an option, but having it confirmed still feels like a slap to the face. 

His father is dead.

“Who’s stalling, now?” he says. “I want to know my mother is alive.” 

“Very well.”

A few seconds pass before a click sounds, and then his mother is talking to him. 

“Tim, are you okay?” she asks, and it sounds like she's in pain and out of breath, but calm. 

Joy overcomes him, because that’s his mother’s voice. Her accent and tone a comfort.

Then he remembers his birthday, and how someone tricked his mother into thinking she was talking to him. 

“How do I know you're really her?” he asks. 

“Because I’m the woman that promised you not to tell your dad you knew Santa isn’t real because you like it when he pretends to be him for you.”

It’s her. His mother is alive and talking to him and he’s so relieved that the mental barriers shatter. 

“Mom,” he gasps, nearly sobbing with relief. “Are you okay?” 

“The transportation left something to be desired, but considering the circumstances, I’m alright,” she says. 

“That’s good.”

She hums, and her voice shifts to the tone that means she expects him to remember every word. “You know, I’ve always preferred the Albatross over the Nautilus, but I have to admit, it gives off a pleasing aesthetic.”

Tim doesn’t get why she’s saying it at first. He remembers her saying it to him before. They’d been having a discussion about french literature. His mom had been staring at the framed poster of the Nautilus he had in his room at the —

That’s it!

Leave it to his mom to find a way to tell him exactly where she is. 

Tim stands up and makes his way over to Barbara, making sure to keep talking to his mother because he’s positive her captor is listening in. 

“What do they want from you, mom?” 

She doesn’t react right away, maybe unsure he’s gotten the message. It gives Tim time to pick up a pen and write ‘Drake manor!’ on a piece of paper lying around. 

Barbara’s eyes go wide and she starts typing furiously, opening up a chat with Black Canary. 

In the end, his mom doesn’t answer his question.

“I love you, Tim,” she says instead, and her tone gives him chills. “Never forget that.” 

“Mom, answer the question.” Tears are flowing freely over his cheeks now. He wants to ask her so many other things. Is it Mr. Head that’s got her? Is it someone else? What do they want from her? What do they want from Tim?

“I’m so proud of you,” she says, and he thinks she’s avoiding the question again until she adds, “turns out you were right about boarding schools all along.”

And then the line goes dead. 

The programs tracing the call fall away, but Tim’s sure he interpreted the hint correctly. 

Black Canary is already racing towards Bristol, but even on her bike Gotham rush hour isn’t something she can completely ignore. 

Tim can feel his heart pounding in his chest as he watches Black Canary’s GPS tracker move to his home. They finally know where his mom is, but the way the call was cut short makes him nervous. 

Especially when his mom sounded like she was saying goodbye. 

He’s standing behind Barbara now, his hands gripping the back of her chair so hard his knuckles are turning white. 

This will work. It  _ has _ to work. 

He can’t even begin to imagine what to do if they aren’t in time. 

“The gates are open,” he hears Black Canary say. “Seems like someone was here recently, and left in a hurry.” 

Tim can faintly hear the thump of her boots hitting the ground when she jumps off the bike, and runs for the door. 

“Okay, so front door wasn’t locked, and there’s no one in the... hall?… foyer? I don’t know the terminology for buildings like these.” 

“Foyer,” Tim supplies automatically, earning him a glare from Barbara which reminds him he’s not supposed to talk when she’s talking to anyone. 

The voice modulator must be a pretty heavy one, though, because Black Canary doesn’t appear to notice a difference. 

“Right.” she whispers. “Well, the foyer’s empty, so where do I go next.” 

“Try Mrs. Drake's office,” Barbara says.

“You’re gonna have to be a tad more specific, O, because this is one big-ass house.” 

“Straight ahead through the family room, go left in the breakfast room and enter the hallway from there. Go right when the hallway splits, the door at the end should lead to the office.” 

As Black Canary makes her way through the house, she’s quiet, and Tim counts the seconds until she reaches the office.

A sharp intake of breath is all the warning he gets. 

“We’re too late.”

-

“I’m an orphan now,” Tim whispers. 

The fact hasn’t quite settled yet, as the last days have been a whirlwind of police reports, funeral preparations, and condolences. The coroner's report stated that his dad had been dead for over a day, but his mom had only been gone for about half an hour. They’d probably cut her throat seconds after the phone connection dropped. 

The phone used to contact him was found smashed in the room. The police suspect his mother did that as a last act of defiance. 

Barbara hadn’t wanted him to see the bodies, but Tim had insisted on identifying them himself. He doesn’t know why he wanted that, and he threw up what little contents there were in his stomach when he did. 

He hasn’t been inside his house yet, has been in police protective custody which means he’s been staying with a police officer called Jamie Harper. He doesn’t know why she offered it, but CPS gave permission for it, and she’s been nice enough so far. 

Barbara had gotten a strange look on her face when he told her after coming out of an interrogation room. 

“I think I’ve told the police what happened about five times now.” It had been hard to explain why Tim was at Barbara’s the whole time, or how they already knew his parents were dead (there had been no pretending to be surprised with how upset he’d already been by the time the police arrived at the clock tower). They’d also needed to get their stories straight. 

Dinah (because once she realised she’d met Tim before back when she was dating Oliver Queen she insisted he should call her Dinah) had called the GCPD anonymously before leaving the manor. She’d been surprised when Barbara guided her through a tunnel system to the basement of the clock tower. Even more so, when she walked inside and saw Tim and Barbara in the war room. 

Turns out, that while she didn’t know who Oracle was, she  _ had _ met Barbara before. 

Not that they had a lot of time to work through all the revelations of that moment before the GCPD was calling Tim’s cellphone, asking where he was. 

He fishes his phone out of the inside pocket of his jacket and navigates to one of the pictures. 

“There was a note left on my mom’s body. It’s with the police now as evidence, but Dinah made a picture of it for me.” 

The neat, cursive writing clashes with the cheap notebook paper. And just like everything else Mr. Head does, it gives Tim chills. 

_ I guess your mother didn’t see reason after all, Timothy. Pity, for she could have lived. _

“Dinah and Barbara agree that mom was trying to tell me it was Mr. Head all along, and that he killed her for giving me the hint.” From what Dinah and the police have gathered, his mother may have fooled the man into thinking she was cooperating so that she could talk to him. “They don’t want to say it, but I’m pretty sure they think he wanted me for something, and that mom wouldn’t give me up. They’re afraid I’ll blame myself. I don’t get why, it’s objectively my fault, there’s no changing the facts.”

It’s making the whole custody thing a lot harder than it usually is. 

“Barbara hacked into my parents’ will so that they can’t mess with it. Mrs. Mac is supposed to take care of me now, with financial support from the inheritance I won’t otherwise have access to until I’m either eighteen or emancipated.” 

But that could possibly bring Mrs. Mac into danger, not to mention her family. Tim spoke to her about it, and he knows she was aware of the will and that she’s prepared to take him in anyway, but he can’t risk that. 

“No one is safe if they take me in. I can’t bring other people into this. It’s best if I could just take care of myself, but there’s no way any judge will grant me emancipation right now.” Tim sighs and scrolls through the other pictures on his phone, ending up at a screenshot of a resume. “I considered inventing an uncle to live with, hire an actor to play the part and everything. But Barbara has seen the will and Mrs Mac knows she has to take care of me, so I can’t just change it, people will notice. And the actor would be in danger as well, I can’t do that.”

He starts swiping again, going through the pictures on his phone mindlessly. 

Barbara and him getting hot chocolate after his second grapnel lesson. The sunset from the plane on the way to San Francisco. Ives and the rest, during his birthday W&W session. The cupcakes Mrs. Mac made him for his birthday. More picture of his friends. 

He stops there. He knows what picture comes next, and he hasn’t looked at it after the first time he scrolled through his pictures, looking for something appropriate for the funeral. He doesn’t like the feeling that comes with looking at it. 

“I figured I’d find you here,” a voice calls out from the path, and Tim looks up to find Barbara to his left, in front of the statue. She looks at the dry grass for a bit with a calculating expression, before she navigates her way to Tim, stopping in front of him. 

She doesn’t ask how he’s feeling, probably knows it won’t be any different from the last few times she’s asked. 

Instead, she asks, “Did you update Jason on everything?” 

He sighs, and rests his head against the marble behind him. “Yeah.” 

“Did you tell him how you feel?”

After the first wave of shock and grief had passed, Tim hasn’t cried. Not in the way Barbara knows he’s capable of, at least. He knows it worries her. That he isn’t opening up. He just doesn’t know how. 

“No.”

“Why not?”

Tim looks down at his phone again, rests his thumb on the screen to swipe to the next picture, but doesn’t. 

“Because I don’t like the way I feel.” He doesn’t like the way his blood boils and his legs twitch with restless energy. He doesn’t like the way he feels like kicking and screaming and scratching. Most of all he doesn’t like that he doesn’t know who he’s mad at more. Mr. Head, his father, or himself. 

“Whatever it is you’re feeling, it’s valid,” Barbara says, and for a second, he wants to turn all the rage against her. 

Because she’s being infuriatingly level-headed whenever she speaks to him, and he knows she can handle anything he throws at her. But she doesn’t deserve that. 

“Is it?” he asks instead, poison in his voice, and once he starts, he can’t stop. 

“I’m so mad I can barely see straight. My parents were killed, everyone is telling me it’s not my fault, yet all evidence suggests that he was doing it to get to me. They sacrificed themselves, to keep me away from him. My whole life, I thought my parents barely cared for me, that they just went through the motions for appearance’s sake. And the moment they prove me wrong, is when someone kidnaps and kills them to get to me! So now, in this weird convoluted way, I have my parents’ murderer to thank for knowing I was loved. He had no right to do that. I hate that he did that, and I hate my dad for never having said it to my face, and I hate that I was too out of it to say it back when mom said it to me the last time.” 

He doesn’t know when the tears started flowing, or when his volume started to go up. 

“And most of all, I hate myself. For being glad to know they loved me, even though I’d happily live the rest of my life without knowing, if it’d mean they would live. For not saying it back to mom and—” 

He chokes on the next bit and falls silent. He watches his tears drip onto the screen of his phone, his thumb still touching it. 

“It  _ is _ valid, Tim,” Barbara says softly.

“You keep telling me I shouldn’t blame myself,” Tim counters. 

“Just because I don’t think you are to blame doesn’t make the way you’re feeling invalid.”

The words land on him like a soft blanket. It doesn’t change the way he feels, but maybe it’s okay to tell someone, after all. 

His thumb moves to the left, lands on a picture of him and his dad in the media-room. They’d been watching a movie together, and they both fell asleep. His mom took the picture on her phone, and sent it to him later.

“The last time I saw dad, I told him I hate him.”

-

Tim wakes up to a message from his mom, which is weird, because last time he checked, they were downstairs. 

He opens it to find a picture of himself and dad, sleeping on the sofa in the media room, and now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t remember how he ended up in bed, or seeing the end of Star Trek. Not that it really matters, he’s seen it plenty of times before. 

As he stretches and swings his feet out of bed, he considers opening up the Bat-watcher blogs, but decides against it. He’s still a bit shaken from the way he saw Batman beat that man a couple of nights ago. Yesterday he’d tried to get his camera to work again, but it’s completely busted, even after he tried drying it. 

And it’s not like he could go out tonight if he wanted to, his dad’s taking him to see Star Trek Into Darkness, after all. 

His mood is great as he dresses and makes his way down to the breakfast area. His parents are home, and they said they’d stay for almost two weeks this time. It’s also a Sunday, which means his parents won’t be working today either. Maybe he can convince them to take him to a park. The weather is decent enough. 

The breakfast area is empty when Tim gets there, which is odd, his mom likes making breakfast on lazy Sundays when they’re home (not that she’d ever allow any of her friends or business associates to discover that). 

His eyes dart to the clock on the wall, but it’s not like he slept in  _ that _ much. 

A noise from the front of the house grabs his attention, and he makes his way to the foyer through the kitchen. 

“I can’t believe you planned that meeting like that,” his father is saying. “You  _ know _ I need to be in Zanzibar by the end of next week. I don’t have time to stop in Paris for negotiations on the way there.”

“Considering you didn’t put that on your planner, I don’t  _ know _ anything, Jack.” 

Tim stops with his hand on the doorknob, just outside the foyer. His parents are fighting. Again.

“I still don’t see why I need to be there.” 

“You’re the CEO of the company, of course you need to be there.” 

His mother is annoyed and his father is raging. And Tim really doesn’t need to hear it. He’s about to turn and flee, already hearing his blood rushing in his ears. He needs to be in his dark room before the panic attack hits. 

“Fine,” his dad says. “I’ll get the luggage in the car, you tell Tim we’re leaving.” 

_ What? _

Anger flashes and replaces the panic, and he pulls the door to the foyer open to find his parents dressed for travel, coats resting on a suitcase, front door open and his father halfway across the porch, carrying a second suitcase. 

“You’re leaving?” he asks. 

His parents turn and look at him in that alarmed way they always do when he catches them fighting. 

“Tim,” his mom says, and his dad continues to the company car waiting for them. “I thought you were still in bed.” 

He’s not about to be distracted though. “You said you’d be home for two weeks, it’s been five days.” 

Her face shifts into the expression she uses when he does something wrong. “We’re very busy people, Tim, plans change, I thought you knew that by now.” 

He  _ does _ know. But that doesn’t make it any better. 

“But—” 

“No buts,” she interrupts, “If you truly have a problem with it, talk to your father, he’s the one who changed the schedule.” 

In that moment, his dad comes through the door. 

“The change wouldn’t have been necessary if you hadn’t planned the meeting without talking to me in the first place,” he says. “Good morning, Tim. Sorry about the change in plans. We’ll make sure to be home for your birthday.” 

He’s not even mentioning the movie.

“Come on, Janet, we’ll miss our departure slot if we don’t hurry.” 

Tim shouldn’t say anything about it. He knows it won’t change anything, will just make it worse. But he’s just so  _ angry _ . 

“What about the movie?” he asks, making his parents look at him from their squabbling. 

“What movie?” his mom asks at the same time as his dad says, “I’m sure it will be there when we get back.” 

“Will it? I’ll be the last in class to see it by that time.”

His father sighs and puts the suitcase he’s carrying down. “I’m sure one of your friends will go with you.”

Tim clenches his fists. “That’s not the point. You promised!” 

That annoys his father, and his eyes narrow in a way that tells Tim he needs to be very careful. He doesn’t particularly care right now. 

“Don’t be such a kid about this,” his dad says. “It’s just a movie.” 

“I  _ am _ a kid,” Tim hisses, but before he can say more, a beep sounds from his dad’s watch. 

“Enough.” He presses a button to make the beep stop and picks up the suitcase again. “I don’t have time for this. If you’re going to act like this, maybe that movie wasn’t a good idea in the first place.” 

With that he walks out the door, and his mother, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, follows him out, carrying her laptop bag. 

“You promised him to go to a movie?” she accuses his dad. “On a school night?” 

They keep arguing all the way to the car, not even paying Tim any attention. 

The rushing in his ears is back, and his vision is starting to warp. Pressure is building on his chest, and with his last full breath he manages to scream, “I HATE YOU!” just before his dad gets in the car. 

Tim doesn’t see how he reacts to it. He’s slammed the front door closed and is running towards the dark room already. 

-

“Oh, Tim,” Barbara whispers when he finally stops talking. “Every child says that to their parents at some point. Most of them don’t mean it any more than you did.” 

“I bet for most of them it’s not the last thing they say, though.” Tim replies, finally tearing his eyes away from the picture on his phone and looking up at Barbara.

His tears have dried at some point. Considering the headache he has, there's a good chance that he simply doesn’t have any more liquid to spare. 

“No,” Barbara agrees, “but it means your dad knew you didn’t mean it. Not really.”

Tim hums, not quite ready to accept that statement at face value, but also unwilling to argue with Barbara over it. 

She’s quiet for a while, and when she speaks again, her voice is… almost tentative. 

“I heard what you said before. About your custody situation.” 

Leave it to Barbara to be able to sneak up on him. 

“I can’t stay with Officer Harper forever,” Tim says. “Who knows if Mr. Head is still after me.” 

“You don’t think she can protect you?” It’s an honest question, and he takes the time to think about it before answering. 

“There’s possibly a complete organisation that wants something from me.” He hasn’t quite taken the time to think about what that something could be, yet. “Even if she could, she shouldn’t have to put herself in danger like that.” 

“And I assume that goes for anyone.” 

Tim nods. 

“Even me?” 

The suggestion shocks Tim into looking up at her, but maybe it shouldn’t. He’s halfway through confirming that, yes, even Barbara shouldn’t have to put herself into danger for him, but the way she’s looking at him clearly challenges him to even  _ think _ about suggesting she wouldn’t be able to protect him. 

A small, vicious part of him wants to point out that she couldn’t save his parents, so why would she be able to protect him? But she doesn’t deserve that, does she? 

She pulled operatives from halfway across the globe to help with the search for his parents, she revealed her identity to Dinah for him. And with Barbara, it’s not about whether she deserves to put herself in danger, it’s about whether she thinks he’s  _ worth _ putting herself in danger for. 

Tim knows her well enough by now to know that she’ll make that decision for herself, regardless of his thoughts on the matter. 

She’s the one that tricked him into vigilante training, after all. The one who decided he’s worth putting that effort into. 

“No,” he eventually says. “Not you.”

Her face softens into something gentle, close to a smile. 

“I talked to my dad,” she says, and he fights the flinch at the word. “And to Officer Harper. And they’ve agreed to let me take over custody until something long term can be arranged. But only if you’re okay with it.” 

Tim thinks it over, but he doesn’t really need to.

“I think I’d like that,” he says, and it earns him a smile. 

“Okay, then we’ll start looking into that after I bring you back to the precinct.”

They fall into silence after that. Tim knows he should probably get up and get going, but he’s not quite ready to leave yet. There’s one more thing that he’s been trying not to think about. Something that’s on his mind regularly anyway. 

He knows Barbara is still searching for Mr. Head, trying to figure out what happened during the time he had his parents, and what he wants. Trying to predict if he’ll try again. He’d be able to help her out with that if he lives with her. 

But staying with Barbara has another advantage, besides the fact that she can protect him and help him find out who Mr. Head is. 

She can teach him to protect himself. 

Tim stands up and offers Barbara a shaky smile, but doesn’t say anything. He moves to the front of the grave and faces the engraved text. 

_ I’m sorry Jason,  _ he thinks,  _ I considered becoming Robin to help your dad, but I can’t decide if you’d be mad at me over that, and I don’t think I want to, anymore. He needs a Robin, but that won’t be me. _

Hey, Barbara?” he asks, and only then notices she’s moved to sit beside him. 

“Hm?”

“If I said I don’t want to be Robin,” he says, and when he looks in her direction her face is pulled into a frown that shows she doesn’t know what he’s thinking, but is willing to hear him out. “That I don’t think I’ll be able to be that kind of support for Batman, but that I still want to do good. Would you still train me?” 

She doesn’t answer for a long time, just looks at him with that stare that feels like she’s looking right through him. 

Tim doesn’t dare look away, doesn’t dare try to look tougher than he feels in that moment. Just lets her look and see whatever it is she’ll find, even if his very core  _ struggles _ against allowing someone to see that much of him.

After a while, she sighs. 

“Yes.”


	11. Adoption Papers And Crowbar Bloodshed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He doesn't want to die._  
Tim stands by his statement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I considered letting the titel and summary speak for themselves, but just in case, I'd like to issue an extra warning for Joker-typical acts of violence. 
> 
> I didn't plan on this chapter being quite like this, but I'm happy with how it turned out. 
> 
> Beta'd by the amazing njw ^^.

Tim runs up to the grave, barely even panting, and grins as he slides to a stop in front of it. Alfred or Babs (and, damn, it’s weird to call them that) might reprimand him later for doing something like that in a cemetery (and probably for messing up his dress shoes, too), but he doesn’t care. 

He’s happy right now, and sure, it’s not like all the events from the past few months are suddenly gone, or less sad, but something good happened, and he wants to bask in it while it lasts. 

So he grins and says, “You’ll never guess what happened.” 

The thought that Jason  _ can’t  _ guess much of anything doesn’t even put a damper on his mood. 

“Tim!” Babs calls from down the path. “You promised you’d wait!” 

Since the funeral, they have visited the cemetery daily, and in the past two weeks, Babs has started hanging back to talk a little to Jason sometimes as well. He doesn’t listen in to what she says. She doesn’t do that with him either, after all. 

He turns to where she and Alfred are coming up the path, and grins wider. “Well, hurry up then!”

Babs huffs and turns to Alfred. “Can you believe this?” she asks, “it’s not even been an hour yet and he’s being cheeky with me.” 

Alfred just hums, something fond in his expression. 

“Can you blame his excitement, Miss Barbara?” he asks. 

Babs turns back to where Tim is making a show of tapping his foot impatiently. 

“I suppose not.”

It feels like it takes hours before they reach him, but when they do, they stop on either side of him. Babs is on his left, holding his hand, Alfred on his right, with a hand on his shoulder. 

For how excited he was when he ran up, he suddenly doesn’t know what to say now that he’s here. 

“Hey, Jason,” Babs echoes his usual opener. “This will be a short visit, but Tim insisted he can’t wait until tomorrow to tell you this, so here we are.” 

It’s just a little before eight and the sun has already set, but they still have a long evening ahead of them. One Tim isn’t particularly looking forward to, but can’t really avoid either. 

Once silence settles, he realizes Babs is waiting for him to say it, but it’s not until she gently squeezes his hand that he manages it. 

“Babs offered to adopt me,” he says, turning to beam at her again, only to find she’s smiling just as brightly back at him. 

“And Tim accepted,” she adds. 

-

Moving in with Barbara is both easier and harder than expected. Easier, because he’d been spending a lot of time with her over the past few weeks, and they fit each other well. They have an easy rapport, and understand each others’ way of thinking. 

It’s harder because Tim isn’t used to having someone around all the time, and because every time Barbara does something even slightly parental (like tell him to clean up after himself), he’s reminded of how his actual parents _ didn’t _ . 

Still, she does her best to make it easier on him. She works from home when she can, and supports him in the many things he has to arrange after his parents’ deaths. She helps him talk to DI’s board of directors, arranges for temporary homeschooling (both for Tim’s safety and because he doesn’t want to go to school), and sits with him during the long nights when the world seems a cold, cruel place, and there are enemies in every shadow. 

When he nearly has a panic attack after the police give them clearance to get his personal belongings out of his room in the manor, she recruits Mr. Pennyworth to help get his stuff so that he won’t have to enter the place his mother died. 

She’s not the only one trying to help, either. Mr. Pennyworth brings them food and takes him to the cemetery on days Barbara has to go to work. He even teaches Tim how to cook some simple dishes. One afternoon, Ives, Callie, Hudson, and Kevin visit him in the clocktower and when they don’t ask about the whole thing with his parents, it’s almost like old times. Even Dinah sticks around the first few days.

So, all in all, it’s easy to get used to living with Barbara in those first two weeks. 

She even keeps her promise, and starts training him more seriously. 

Most days, he’s sore, tired and somber, but he’s glad for it, in a way. One of the conditions Barbara set for training him was that he'd talk to someone about what happened. He'd been doubtful at first—he can't just talk to any grief counselor, after all—but between Barbara's preference for someone trained, and Tim's insistence that there's no use in any type of counseling if he can't talk about everything, they'd found a nice compromise in Dinah. 

While Dinah isn't a trained professional, she  _ is _ the JLA’s ‘certified mom friend.’ Barbara's words, not Tim's. He's found that the upside of talking to her is that she's about as non judgmental as Barbara, without being his temporary guardian. 

They don't do appointments or anything, but whenever Tim doesn't know what to do with himself, they video call (and isn't that cool, he's got Black Canary’s personal phone number!) and she listens to him rant about whatever for a while. 

It's not perfect. Tim finds it hard to open up completely, and distracting himself by keeping busy feels preferable to talking about it, in many ways. Personally, Tim thinks that's the reason Barbara is okay with going to the cemetery every day, despite the potential danger he’s still in. Because in the end, it's simply easiest to talk there. To talk to the marble angel that represents Jason. 

So Tim goes, and Barbara comes along. And when they get there, she hangs back, and he talks. 

He talks about his parents, about the hassle of the inheritance and the company. He talks about the strangeness of missing them, when they were never there to begin with. 

And some days, when that doesn’t help, he goes into the gym after they get home, tapes up his hands like Barbara taught him to, and lets his frustration pour out of him. 

It’s not part of his official training regimen, but Barbara doesn’t tell him to stop, doesn’t mention it when he curses at the world for taking his parents away. At his parents, for leaving him. At himself, for not saving them. 

She doesn’t say anything, but she wraps him in a hug that doesn’t need words, makes him sit down to drink, and corrects his stance the next time they train. 

Today isn’t one of those days. 

Today he’s not angry, just focused and a little sad. 

He’s working his way through a new kata Barbara asked Dinah to show him the day before. It’s based on redirecting the force of your opponent instead of employing your own, and when he’d asked about it, Dinah had laughed and ruffled his hair. 

“If your build now is any indication of the future, this will work much better for you than the brute strength approach ever will,” she’d said. 

Tim had wanted to feel indignant about that, wanted to point out that he’s grown three inches over the last year, thank you very much—he’s barely a couple inches shorter than Dinah as it is. But he also knows that he’s objectively shorter than the average for his age. 

He can’t help hoping he’ll surprise people and get pretty tall, though. If only so people will stop touching his hair. 

Still, the kata that come with the fighting style are soothing, so there’s that. 

The door to the gym opens when he’s nearly finished, but he continues on when he sees it’s Barbara from the edge of his vision. When he stills in the final position, she speaks up. 

“You’re picking that up quite fast,” she says, a hint of something in her voice that took Tim hours to place the first time he heard it; pride. 

He feels himself flush, but also can’t help the small smile the comment causes. 

“Thanks.”

Barbara smiles, and throws him a bottle of water. 

“Why don’t you work on cooling down and getting a shower,” she says. “Alfred’s coming over soon to make sure the suit fits right and I want to talk to you about something before we leave.” 

Tim’s smile falls a little at the mention of their evening plans. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate that Drake Industries wants to honor his parents, not at all. He wouldn’t have agreed to the memorial service if he disliked the idea of it. 

It’s just that all of Gotham high society will come out of the woodwork to show their support, and no matter how low his expectations are, the amount of people who will be genuine about it will still manage to disappoint him. 

His limbs feel heavy when he comes out of the shower and reaches up to grab his towel from its hook, but it’s a good tired. The kind of exhaustion that he’s quickly coming to associate with effort, and progress, and strength. He dresses in simple sweats and a T-shirt before making his way downstairs to the living room. 

Mr. Pennyworth is already there, poring over some documents with Barbara. The two adults both look up as he enters the room. 

“Ah, Master Timothy,” Mr. Pennyworth says, and Tim takes a second to wonder since when he’s not Mr. Drake anymore. Perhaps around the time he started asking him to call him Alfred, but he can’t be sure. “How do you find training? I remember two other boys who were quite taken with it.” 

He feels his jaw drop. Mr. Pennyworth knows about that?

His alarm must show in a comical way, because Barbara laughs. 

“Relax, Tim,” she says. “I had to tell him after he saw that bruise on your shoulder from the spinning dummy incident when he was fitting you for the suit.” 

He groans and can’t help but put a little whine in his voice when he says, “You promised we wouldn’t talk about that anymore.” It was more damaging to his pride than anything else, but he doubted any of the other heroes had ever managed to hit themselves with a training dummy like that. 

At least the bruise is finally fading. 

That’s when Mr. Pennyworth chuckles, not something Tim has seen the man do before. 

“Perhaps you would prefer it if we spoke of the time Master Richard hit himself in the back of his head with a practice batarang,” he says, and when Tim looks at him doubtfully, he adds, “or that time when Master Jason slipped on a rogue domino while sparring with Miss Barbara.” 

Barbara laughs. “Or the time Dick fumbled his jump on the trapeze when I pretended Kory walked in.” Her grin turns positively devious then. “Or that time Jason forgot to block Dick’s punch when we teased him about his crush.” 

Tim can’t quite believe his ears. It’s so hard to imagine either of the Robins making mistakes like that. 

“Ah yes, you always did like to distract the boys with their respective love lives,” Mr. Pennyworth tells Barbara. “I seem to recall you liked it a little less when they teamed up to tease you about a certain Mr. Bard.” 

Barbara laughs. “Fair enough.”

It’s later, as Mr. Pennyworth is making some last minute adjustments to his dress shirt upstairs and Tim and Barbara are alone in the kitchen, that he comes back to the conversation. 

“You know,” he says, “I felt kind of sorry for Jason at the time. It can’t have been easy to have both your older sibling figures tease you about having a crush like that.” 

For some reason, that makes Barbara choke on her drink and sputter. 

“You  _ knew _ ?!” 

Tim deadpans. “It’s kinda hard to miss Dick Grayson being an ass about something like that. He’s not exactly subtle. Neither were you, now that I think about it.” 

She waves the comment off. “Not the teasing, the crush.” 

Why is that even important? 

Tim tilts his head a bit as he thinks about what he did actually know about it. 

“I heard Dick talking about it once,” he says, “Jason did a really bad job of denying it. No idea who, though.”

“Oh, Tim…” When he focusses back on Barbara, her face is sad, wistful even. 

It puts him on the defensive. “What?” 

“You never wondered?” she asks. “Who he liked?” 

That causes Tim to flush again. What is it with Barbara and making him embarrassed today?

“Not really,” he says, shrugging. “I mean, they must be pretty great, if someone as amazing as Jason liked them, right?” 

Barbara hums. 

“Would you tell them, if you knew who it was?” 

He’s struggling to see the point of this conversation, but he can’t quite manage it. 

“I—” he pauses, thinks about it. “No, I wouldn’t”

“Why not?”

Tim looks away, feels like his answer lays him bare. 

“Because it would be sad enough that I would know,” he says. “That I would realise the potential lost when Jason died. If they are ignorant to the fact that they could have been with him, then let them stay that way.” 

“Ignorance is bliss?” 

Normally, he hates that saying. Now he just shrugs again. 

“Something like that.” 

Thankfully, she lets it drop then, because he doesn’t know how he would have reacted if she’d pushed it. 

It’s not long after they fall to silence that Mr. Pennyworth comes down the stairs to announce he’s finished with Tim’s dress shirt. Tim accepts the garment and moves upstairs to get dressed. 

He does fine until he gets to the tie. His hands start trembling halfway through the knot and his eyes burn as he’s overwhelmed by the memory of his father teaching him how to tie it, only for his mother to show him how to do it better. 

_ There’s nothing wrong with the way your father does it, Tim, but that knot says class, and this one claims authority. Always use the right one for the right occasion. _

Tim stares at the half done knot, the way his dad did it, for all of ten seconds before ripping it out and retying it his mother’s way. 

No one is walking over him tonight. 

By the time he joins Barbara and Mr. Pennyworth downstairs, his face is composed, and his hair has been combed and gelled into submission. 

He looks like the proper Drake heir.

Even now, he kinda hates it. 

Barbara and Mr. Pennyworth are looking over those documents from earlier again, and she waves him over. 

“Before we go,” she says, “there’s something I wanted to discuss with you.”

Tim doesn’t quite get close enough to see what the documents say as he moves towards the couch and the coffee table they are spread out on. “Are the lawyers having trouble with finalising my will?” he asks. 

Barbara smiles a little and shakes her head. “No, everything is going according to plan on that front. The board is being difficult, as we expected them to, but Mr. Ross is keeping them at bay.” 

“Okay.” Tim glances at the paperwork again. “Then what is it?”

“Nothing bad,” Barbara says, “at least, I hope so. Why don’t you sit down?” 

This whole thing is putting him on edge, and he can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. He does sit down on the couch, and Mr. Pennyworth excuses himself to go make tea. He briefly places a hand on Barbara’s shoulder before exiting. 

She glances at him as he leaves, before moving to face Tim. 

The feeling of panic that overwhelms him at her serious expression comes out of nowhere. His breath ceases, and the rushing in his ears starts. 

This is it. 

This is the moment Barbara tells him he’s not good enough. That he’s a burden. That he’ll have to leave. 

It’s only logical. Ever since she met him, he’s brought her nothing but work. Nothing but danger. 

He couldn’t eve— “Tim, breathe!”

He snaps out of it, focusing on Barbara’s voice.

He’s vaguely aware that she’s counting out a breathing pattern for him, and he struggles to follow it until the pressure on his chest loosens. 

“There you go,” she says. “Good job, Tim.” 

He wants to tell her she’s wrong—he wouldn’t be having these stupid panic attacks if he really was doing a good job—but her smile says that she means it. 

“Now,” she says. “Do you want to tell me what caused that? Or do you want to talk about something else?” 

Tim doesn’t mean to sound so pleading, doesn’t mean to say it at all, but the words still escape him. 

“Please don’t send me away.” 

Barbara’s broken expression nearly sends him into another panic attack. 

Now he’s not just a burden, he went and hurt her feelings as well. 

But before he can fall further along that line of thinking, he's pulled into a tight embrace. 

“Never,” she whispers in his hair, voice shaking. “You'll always be welcome with me, Tim.” 

He's not sure when he returned the hug—maybe he did from the start—but his arms tighten around Barbara when she says it. 

“Really?” he whispers, and even to himself it's hard to admit just how desperately he wants it to be true. 

“Really.”

He should feel embarrassed about the gasped sob that's the only answer he can manage, but Barbara just shifts a little to accommodate him better, and he can't bring himself to be ashamed. 

“In fact,” she says, “I was going to ask how you feel about making your place here a little more permanent.” 

And that. 

Well, that's the kind of thing Tim needs to see her face for. 

So he reluctantly backs up out of the embrace enough to look her in the eyes. 

“You mean like make me your ward?” he asks, too tired of things falling apart around him to really be hopeful. 

A precaution that's immediately justified, when Barbara shakes her head a little. The fact that she's still smiling just confuses him further. 

“No, Tim,” she says, and she continues before he even has the chance to feel crushed about it. “I was thinking more along the lines of adoption.”

_ What? _

Everything in him screeches to a stop. His mindscape, usually too hard to quiet down even a little, feels like a ghost town, and he sits very very quietly trying to process what he just heard. 

Something about his face must alarm Barbara somehow, as her next words sound a bit rushed. 

“I mean, only if you want me to, obviously!” she says. “If you prefer to be my ward that's totally fine, of course.” Barbara keeps talking but he’s barely listening at that point. 

She wants him. 

Really wants him, and the warmth that spreads through him in that moment is unlike anything he’s ever felt before. He’s not a burden, or some responsibility pushed on her against her will. She wants him around because for whatever reason, she cares, and he can’t quite suppress the smile that spreads on his face. 

Barbara’s still talking. “Or I can find another long term solution for you. And you can take some time to think about it. I just want to make sure you—”

“Yes.” It's out before Tim's fully conscious he made his decision, and Barbara also looks taken aback. 

“Yes?” she asks, as if unsure which part he’s saying yes to. 

“Yes,” he repeats. “If you want to adopt me, I’d like that.” 

Barbara smiles and pulls him back into the hug. 

“Thank you,” she mumbles in his hair, though he has no idea what for.

It doesn’t matter, though, he sinks into the warmth of the embrace anyway.

He still feels hollow, and it’s not like this somehow negates everything that happened before, but knowing that Barbara won’t let him go through it alone means the world. 

Not that he didn’t know that before, but still.

“I feel a small celebration is in order.” 

Tim flinches a little at the sound of Mr. Pennyworth’s voice.

He’d forgotten he was here. 

Mr. Pennyworth approaches them carrying a tray with three mugs. One hot chocolate for Tim, a coffee for Barbara, and tea for himself. 

There’s also a plate of cookies. 

He sets the tray down on the coffee table as Tim extracts himself from Barbara’s arms and sits back on the couch, then places a hand on his shoulder. 

“Congratulations, Master Timothy,” he says. “I feel this is a wise decision.” 

Tim sobers a little at that. 

“Thanks, Mr. Pennyworth,” he says, making the butler tut. 

“None of that, now,” he says. “I told you, the family calls me Alfred.” 

Tim opens his mouth to protest, but Barbara’s quicker. 

“Don’t bother, Tim. Alfred’s the one who decides who’s part of the family. No one really knows how it works.” She sounds both amused and a little exasperated. “God knows when he added me to the family tree. I certainly don’t.” 

Alfred (and that will take some getting used to) doesn’t miss a beat. “Right around the first time Batgirl saved the life of one of my boys.”

Barbara chuckles. “You didn’t even know I was Batgirl back then, Alfred.”

The butler levels a stare at her and lifts a single eyebrow in a way that Tim is learning only he can quite manage. 

“Didn’t I?” he asks. “And I suppose you expected me to believe it was your father’s idea to give a man suffering from swamp fever Chinese oranges? Not to mention that we pretended it was a normal flu.” 

Barbara looks a bit shocked in that moment, which makes Tim chuckle. 

“Looks like Mr. Penn—” Tim feels the eyebrow stare pointed at him, and corrects. “Er, I mean, Alfred’s got you there.” 

The knowing smirk Barbara sends his way makes him flush, and she laughs. 

“Told you, Alfred’s the one who decides.” 

“And now that you’ve agreed on adoption, I’d say Master Timothy has no excuse anymore.” 

Tim opens his mouth to argue that, but then all the talk of adoption and family brings along another, horrifying thought. 

He turns to Barbara. “Does that mean I’ll have to call you mom?” 

He hates that his voice wavers on the word, that he sounds so vulnerable in that moment. He had meant to say it as a joke, not as some sort of desperate plea. But Barbara, as always, knows exactly what he needs to hear. 

“Not unless you ever decide you want to. I’m not replacing your mother, Tim,” she says, then frowns. “Actually, now that I think about it. I know I technically will be your parent, but I’m too young to have a fourteen year old son.” 

That sends a rush of cold over Tim, and he slumps a bit. “Oh.” 

He knew it was too good to be true. 

“Hey, no.” Gentle fingers lift his chin to make him look back up at Barbara. “That doesn’t mean I don’t want to do it. It just means that despite the fact that on paper you’ll become my son, if we decide we like to think of each other as siblings or something better, we can do that.” 

Tim appreciates that she’s avoiding calling herself his mom, and he’s always wanted a sibling, even if he’d always thought he’d be the older one. 

“I like that,” he says, and when Barbara doesn’t seem to immediately get it, adds, “The sibling thing, that could work.” 

Her smile as she says, “Yes, I dare say it could,” is so gentle and full of something Tim tentatively labels as love that he can’t do anything but beam right back at her. 

And then she has to ruin the moment by ruffling his hair. 

“Baaabs,” he whines. “Now I have to redo it before we leave.” 

Barbara has the gall to grin at him, totally unrepentant. 

“Big sister privileges,” she says, and in that moment, Tim wants to take it all back. 

“Besides,” she continues, “with how long you made me wait for you to call me that, a little retaliation was in order.” 

It takes him a moment to understand what she means, but then he remembers what he just said, and his face flushes. 

“If you wanted me to call you Babs, you could have just asked, you know,” he grumbles, because he  _ had  _ wanted to, just didn’t know if it was okay.

“Right, because that went so well for Alfred.” 

If possible, he feels his face heat up even further. “That’s different.”

“If you say so.”

Tim doesn’t deign to answer that, he’s too busy soaking in the warm feeling of belonging that’s filling him. It doesn’t quite fill the gaping hole his parents left behind, doesn’t even try to, really. Instead, it softens the ragged edges into something just a little more bearable. Something that might not leave him in broken pieces in the end. 

He’s wanted.

He’s got family. 

He’s got Alfred in his corner, and Babs. 

And he’s not deaf, only people she likes get to call her that. 

People like Dick, and Dinah. 

And Jason. 

Tim shoots upright. “We gotta tell Jason!” 

-

Barbara laughs, and says, “He refused to go to the memorial service without telling you first.” 

“You’re the one who wanted to tell him together,” Tim counters. “You’re just as excited.”

“True.”

It’s amazing, how easy it is to banter with Babs like this. Tim won’t fool himself, they’ve been building up to this from the first time they met, but it’s still great to have this connection to her. 

She grins at him for a moment, then sobers up a little. 

“Why don’t we go back to the car?” she says. “We don’t want to be late.” 

Tim frowns but nods. “I guess.” 

The hand on his shoulder tightens a bit. 

“Don’t worry, Master Timothy,” Alfred says. “Both Miss Barbara and myself will be there all through the service.” 

Tim smiles up at him and allows himself to complain about it while they make their way back down the path. It’s not until they are nearly at the corner that he realizes Babs isn’t with them. 

He turns to find she’s still at the grave, and starts walking back.

“You coming, Babs?”

She looks up at him. 

“Yeah, give me a sec.” 

Then, she rolls across the grass and places her hand on the statue like she sometimes does, and whispers something Tim doesn’t think he’s supposed to hear. 

“Don’t worry, Jay. I’ll take care of your little bird.”

For some reason, it makes his face heat up. 

That almost sounds like... 

No, it can’t be. That’s ridiculous. 

By the time Babs joins him on the path, he’s very grateful it’s too dark for her to see his blush. 

He has a feeling he’d never hear the end of it if she did, and by the time they enter the car to leave for the memorial service, it’s faded under the gloom of the rest of the evening.

It’s still dark by the time the sound of steps disturbs the cemetery again, but a good few hours  _ have _ passed. 

Tim is panting, practically gasping for air as he runs up to the statue, keeps running past it, and collapses against the back of it. 

The cold, wet grass sticks to his bare legs, but he doesn’t even register the shiver it causes over the aching of his ribs. 

He hides behind the pedestal and covers his mouth with his hand to quiet down. 

He knows the chances of someone following him are small, but he lost the little earpiece he’d been wearing on the way here, and he was too freaked out to go back for it. He’s not even sure if Babs’ tracker is still on him anywhere.

He listens intently, stays quiet even after long minutes of absolutely nothing. 

At some point he thinks he can still hear the shrill laughter, but that's not possible. He thinks he can still see the flash of too-white fingers grasping his shoulder painfully. 

His face throbs. Pain starting at the edge of his right eyebrow, radiating to his temple and cheekbone. It’s not quite as bad as the throbbing along the left side of his chest, but still quite bad. When he gingerly touches the area, his fingers come back sticky with blood. 

His breath hitches despite his efforts to stay silent, and a sharp spike momentarily replaces the ache of his ribs. 

He honestly wouldn’t be surprised if some of them are broken.

“Okay, Tim,” he whispers to himself. “You need to calm the fuck down, now.”

It doesn’t help much, but just enough for him to quiet down and listen again. 

After almost twenty minutes of waiting, Tim figures no one is coming, and he relaxes slightly, but he doesn't move from behind the pedestal. 

"Hey Jason," he whispers, then stops. 

Does he want to tell Jason about tonight? Would it even be right? Would Jason approve of what happened? Would he condemn it? 

In the end, what Jason wants doesn't matter. He's dead, and tonight, Tim came way too close to joining him for comfort.

"I met your killer tonight." 

-

Tim can't count the amount of hands he's shaken tonight, and the evening isn't even halfway through. If there had been any way Tim could have gotten out of coming to this gathering, he would have. But it's a memorial gathering for his parents, organised by Drake Industries, so he has to be there. 

In a way, it's fortunate that he can accept all the well wishes in one go. He's been fielding calls from all sorts of people ever since before the funeral. 

Some are genuine, some aren't. Mr. Ross, his mother's personal assistant, is genuine. He helped Tim prepare for the evening, and keeps the board of directors off his back. 

Mrs. Tracy? Not so much. It's terrible in a way how people think they can benefit off of the suffering of others. 

At least she doesn’t try to touch his hair or his cheeks. 

“Remember, Timothy,” she says. “Anything at all. We just want to help.” 

_ Yes, help yourself to my mom’s art collection,  _ Tim thinks. It’s never been a secret that Mrs. Tracy was jealous of the rare art pieces his mother picked up during her business trips. Tim would sooner personally hand Catwoman a key to the house than allow this woman within a mile of it. 

He plasters a polite smile on his face. 

“Thank you for the offer, Mrs. Tracy,” he says. “But the police haven’t finished their investigation of the house yet, so no one is allowed to enter. Me and my guardian have a plan for the cleanup when they do.” 

Mrs. Tracy tuts and wrinkles her nose in what she  _ thinks _ is elegant disapproval, but Tim  _ knows _ to be constipated holier-than-thou ego. 

“Honestly, you can’t expect a woman like that to know how to treat such priceless pieces, Timothy. You need someone with the proper knowledge and respect to help you out.” 

He’s had enough of this. It’s not getting him anywhere. And he’s not about to just stand here and let this  _ woman _ insult Babs.

Time to make his mom proud. 

He schools his face into the chilly expression he’ll never admit to practicing in the mirror, and asks, “Are you implying my mother didn’t instruct me appropriately in the handling of her possessions?” 

Mrs. Tracy doesn’t like that, he can tell from the way her lips thin and her eyes widen, but before she can retort he continues. “You’re right of course,” he baits her, tricking her into a false sense that he’s going to give her what she wants. “I  _ do _ need someone with the proper knowledge and respect to help me handle the art collection.” 

He waits for a few seconds, allows the triumph to grow on her face. 

“I’m afraid that means you are severely underqualified, though. Enjoy your evening.” 

Tim turns and leaves without waiting for a reply. Something his mother instructed him to never do unless he needed a show of superiority over someone. 

He catches Barbara’s eye as he crosses the ballroom used for the memorial service, and changes course to approach her. He’s wearing a small wire in his ear so she can keep an eye on him even when they aren’t close together, so she’s probably heard the entire conversation. 

She seems to be trying to send him a disapproving look, and he gets that—he was pretty rude after all—but the corners of her lips are pulling up a bit, betraying her amusement. 

That little pull disappears completely when she looks up at someone next to her who must have addressed her. 

At first, Tim can’t see who it is, but then the crowd shifts and he stops in his tracks. 

Bruce Wayne. 

The man who’s supposed to protect Gotham. 

Who didn’t save his parents. 

Refused to even try. 

In all the time since he first heard Batman refuse to help, he’s not been angry with the man, hasn’t thought to blame him. Now, though. Now he feels wholly justified in being angry.

The fury that rushes through him isn’t the explosive fire he’s expecting. No. This is the calculating, creeping ice that fills his veins in the way he’s only ever seen in his mother when someone truly pissed her off (and he always counted his blessings that she’d never turned it on him in it’s true capacity).

He can’t change course now, as much as he’d like to. Mr. Wayne has already noticed him, and would surely detect that something’s off if he attempts to avoid him. 

At least he doesn’t appear to be fully in ‘Brucie-mode’ right now. 

“Mr. Wayne,” Tim says when he’s close enough, claiming control of the conversation. “It’s been a while. Thank you for attending.” 

Babs’ frown tells him she’s noticed the chilly quality of his tone, but she doesn’t intervene. 

Mr. Wayne doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Yes,” he says, his own tone good-natured. “I think we last saw each other at GCPD’s new year's reception.

"Actually," Tim coolly replies. "We also saw each other at the start of April. You came to pick up Jason from school. I think he was grounded at the time, wouldn't tell me why."

It's a low blow, Tim knows that. Knows he's playing with fire.

He doesn't regret saying it until he notices the absolutely heartbroken expression on Mr Wayne's face.

Then he want to kick himself in the teeth.

What's he thinking? Using Jason against his dad like that. The anger bleeds out of him in an instant, and he finds himself scrambling for a follow up to soften the blow.

"Jason was always nice to me," he says. "Protected me from bullies at school. It's been different without him. I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Wayne."

He's not sure what he meant to accomplish with that, but while Mr. Wayne still looks sad, he's also smiling down on Tim just a little.

"Thank you, Tim," he says. "Jason was a good boy, I'm glad someone remembers him."

Tim's pretty much floored by the open reaction, and he can tell from the flabbergasted look on Babs' face she's feeling the same.

But Mr. Wayne isn't done yet.

"I doubt you came here to console an old man, though. I know you've probably heard it a hundred times tonight alone, and are tired of hearing it, but I'm sorry for your loss as well."

It's weird. He's right, of course. Tim's lost count of the amount of condolences he's received, and he's honestly pretty done with it all.

And yet.

"Somehow, it means more coming from you," he says honestly, then hesitates. "You understand."

The hand on his shoulder is warm. "I just wish you didn't have to understand it. But it's true, and I'm sorry."

Tim shrugs, and in an aftershock of the anger that consumed him before says, "It's not like you could have done anything to prevent it."

This one he regrets right away. Not because of it's vindictive nature, but because of what it could reveal.

Barbara's probably not happy with him right now, and if the sudden calculating quality of Mr. Wayne's gaze is anything to go by, she's got a good reason to feel that way.

Shit.

Now he can only hope he was casual enough about it that Mr. Wayne doesn't think he meant anything by it.

They make a little more small talk before Babs mentions seeing someone else she wants Tim to talk to and drags him away.

From that point, the evening becomes a blur of more condolences, offers of help—some of which are even genuine—and small talk.

Tim thinks it's nearly over and is about to congratulate himself on making it through the evening without losing it when it all goes drastically downhill.

It starts with a bang, followed by screams, which are quickly drowned out by a high-pitched, bone-chilling laughter.

The kind that sets any self-respecting Gothamite on edge.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMAN," a voice calls through the crowd. "Welcome to tonight's main event. I like to call it 'Limb or Bling’! So empty those pretty necks, wrists and pockets unless you want to lose whatever extremities they’re attached to."

Tim freezes, absolutely freezes.

Of all the villains that could have decided to rob a memorial service of all things. It just had to be the Joker.

A quick look around doesn't show Mr. Wayne anywhere, and Tim hopes he left already. He doesn't see Babs, either, which worries him right up till he hears the little click that means she's opened her side of the comm.

"I need you to listen very carefully, Tim," she says as the room quiets in silent terror. "You need to get out of there without catching his attention."

“And how do you suggest I do that?” he whispers as a whole group of thugs streams into the room, large bags ready for collection.

“Stay calm, remember your training. If they single you out for collection before you get out, give them everything.”

Okay. He can do that.

Tim quietly follows Barbara’s instructions and slowly makes his way to the edge of the room, where one of the emergency exits is somehow unguarded. 

“Very good, Tim,” Babs says. “There will be a distraction in approximately twenty seconds, and I want you to dash through that door then and not to stop running until I tell you to.”

As soon as she says it, Tim knows that’s not gonna happen.

In that moment he meets the Joker's eyes, and he doesn't know how or why, but he knows he's in for a world of pain right in that moment.

"Ohhhh, what have we here?" Joker mock-asks, and Tim comes to the startling realisation that he may just be the main objective of this robbery. "Black hair, blue eyes... Now where have I seen that before?"

Tim's vaguely aware of Barbara’s voice in his ears yelling for him to run, and he plans to, but the moment he shifts to do it, Joker speaks up again.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Birdy," he says. "Unless you want every single person in this room to laugh themselves to death."

In that moment, Tim very much doubts the claims of insanity that have kept the clown out of the courtroom, and he freezes in place.

Barbara is still yelling at him, and he means to run. Mostly because he's under no illusion Joker will kill everyone here whether he attempts to run or not, but then he feels a sharp pinch in his neck, and the world goes black.

By the time he wakes up, his hands are tied behind his back, and he's shivering from the cold and the wind.

He doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t need to to know he's outside somewhere—probably high up. His feet are also tied together. 

As if that isn't enough to send him into a state of complete panic, he also realises after a moment that he's not wearing his suit anymore.

In fact, he appears to be wearing very short shorts and boots, leaving most of his legs bare to the cold.

"I know you're awake, Birdie."

The voice shocks him out of his attempt at feigning sleep, and he opens his eyes, only to gasp and wish he could just pass out again.

He's on a rooftop, alone save for Joker and a camera, dressed in a Robin costume.

In that moment, Tim is sure this is the day he'll die.

He'll die, and it will all be just so Joker can hurt Batman some more.

He doesn't want to die.

He’s not done with his life yet!

Then, he hears Barbara's voice, and comes to the stunning revelation that whoever changed his clothes—and he fervently hopes that Joker delegated that particular task, as he'd rather have a random goon touch him than the creep before him—hadn't taken out the wire in his ear.

"Tim, if you are awake, I need you to give me a sign."

Which... okay. Tim can do that much.

He attempts to sit up a little, and groans when whatever knocked him out in the first place makes him dizzy.

"Alright, good job Tim," Barbara says. "Now, I know it's difficult, but I need you to stay calm and try not to provoke him. Help is on the way."

What help, Tim thinks as he starts working his way out of the ropes that bind his wrists, but he's distracted by the Joker fiddles with the camera until it starts filming.

"Hey! Batsy," he says. "You'll never guess what I found."

Oh fuck.

The Joker makes a grand gesture in Tim's direction.

"It's a little replacement for the brat! Doesn't he look just like the other two?"

He walks towards Tim while talking with grand gestures.

"You know, after I killed the last one. I kinda missed the little bugger. I know! Surprised me, too!"

He sweeps to bow and pick something off the floor.

"Who was I to practice my forehand on now?"

If Tim hadn't been terrified before, he would have been now. Barbara's gasp doesn't help matters.

She's talking to him. Trying to calm him, apologizing for what's happening, for not protecting him. But in that moment, all Tim can do is stare at the crowbar gripped tightly in the Jokers fingers.

"You know, kid," he says. "Depending on how fun you are, I might just keep you around."

He’s in range then, and Tim flinches when he lifts his right hand, but he just rests the crowbar on his shoulder.

He flinches a second time when the Joker places his left hand on his shoulder while circling him.

"So be a good boy, and scream for Uncle J."

Tim's not sure exactly why, but in that moment he feels something rebellious in him rise.

The Joker wants him to scream?

Fuck that.

He wanted a Jason replica? Tim will do his fucking utmost to emulate him.

In a flash, he turns his head and digs his teeth into the flesh of Joker's wrist hard enough to draw blood.

He only gets a second to feel satisfied with the yelp he gets while Joker pulls his wrist from between his teeth before pain explodes along his left side.

He's screaming despite himself, and it takes a moment before he even registers that Joker hit him with the crowbar.

He flashes back to the file on Jason's death. To the many, many wounds suspected to be caused by blunt force.

This already hurts so much, and he's only taken one hit.

How much had Jason hurt, by the end of it?

How much will he hurt, before it ends?

"I have to say, that was unexpected, Bird-boy." Joker is grinning down at him, not even looking at the wound on his wrist. "This just might be more fun than I anticipated."

Babs is still talking to him, but he can't quite hear her. Joker has turned to monologue at the camera again, and Tim, in a flash of clarity, starts working on loosening the ropes again.

He's suddenly very grateful Babs had insisted on practicing getting out of bindings from the start of his training when he manages to get his hands free. 

Not that he knows what he’ll do if he manages to get his feet free as well, but the sense of accomplishment cuts through his utter terror and helps him focus. The Joker still has his back to him, so he takes a chance and moves his newly freed hands to start untying his feet. 

He barely manages to suppress a pained groan when bending forward makes the throbbing in his chest flare up. His hands shake, and his fingers feel numb both from the cold and the stress, but he makes pretty good time untying his feet anyway. 

“Well, well, well.” Tim freezes and looks up to find Joker has finally turned back to him again. “You are a very bad Birdy. Uncle J was talking, and you went and tried to escape.” 

Tim tries to scramble away from the clown, but he’s not fast enough. Before he gets fully to his feet, the Joker has grabbed him by the cape and hauled him up. 

Nonsensically, Tim thinks  _ No capes! _ to himself before coming face to face with the Joker as he shifts his grip to the tunic and holds Tim up. 

“I think I’ll have to punish you for that.” 

Joker lifts the crowbar again, and Tim can’t help but close his eyes and tense up in anticipation of the coming blow. 

Which doesn’t come. 

Instead, Joker’s hand on his costume is ripped away. Aggressively enough that Tim loses his footing and falls back to the ground. When he looks up, he sees why.

Just a few feet away from him, holding the Joker by the throat, is Batman. 

-

Tim is still not entirely sure how he managed to survive, and he’s suddenly too tired to continue talking. 

It must have already been very late by the time he woke up on that rooftop, and he’s talked through the rest of the night. The sky is starting to brighten in that way that forewarns the sunrise. 

Tim should go home, to the clocktower. Should find a way to contact Babs. 

But he’s just so tired and in pain, and he doesn’t think he can bring himself to even get up at this point. 

His ribs protest as he moves to take the cape off and burrows underneath it. His face throbs as he leans against the pedestal. 

He thinks to himself,  _ just a nap before I go figure out if payphones are still a thing _ , and then he’s out cold. 


	12. Broken Rules And Energizer Bunnies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Why?” _
> 
> Tim’s got the feeling that question will keep coming back to him for the rest of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there’s anyone reading this who happens to have a medical or paramedical degree, has experienced the type of injuries described, or, like me, is just more curious about this type of stuff than the average person, I know I’m taking major liberties with Tim’s physical state right now, and while I tried to make it somewhat accurate, I had to cut some corners in order to advance the plot according to plan. Sorry if that bothers anyone. 
> 
> TL:DR: serious Comic Book Physics ahead. 
> 
> Second to last one for the first installment of the series!! We're getting somewhere!
> 
> As before, big thanks to njw for the beta.

The hustle and bustle of circus life surrounds Tim as his mom grips his hand and leads him through the crowd. He stumbles a little when the crowd jostles him, and she smiles down at him before speaking a few words to his dad. 

Before he knows it, two strong arms lift him up and carry him on. 

That’s when he realises something is off. He should feel safe in his dad’s arms—he  _ remembers _ feeling safe there—but he doesn’t. When his mom addresses the aerialist family, and Dick smiles at him as he pulls him into a hug for the picture, he knows why.

He knows it’s a dream, and yet he can’t do anything but watch in horror as the night fast-forwards to that horrible snap of a rope. To that unforgettable crunch of falling bodies. 

Tim finds himself wishing to dream about something else. 

Anything else. 

_ I think I’ll have to punish you for that. _

Anything but this. 

The dream has shifted seamlessly into a more recent memory. 

He doesn’t know if his ribs ache because of the dream, or because his actual ribs are still hurting, but they do, and the Joker stands over him one moment, and is gone the next. 

Tim scrambles away from where Batman is holding Joker up by the throat, but the maniacal laughter is gluing his eyes on the pair. 

“Making better time, ey, Batsy?” Joker asks, and Tim’s sure he sees Batman’s fingers tighten a little. 

“Tim, hide!” Barbara yells through the wire in his ear, and after a quick glance around he crawls behind an AC box. 

He peeks around the edge just in time to see Joker stab something into Batman’s lower arm, making him drop him. 

Joker lands on his feet somehow, and manages to get out of Batman’s reach, practically dancing around the camera set up. 

“Do you like my gift? Batsy? A little replacement Birdy, just for you,” he says, swinging the crowbar he somehow still holds. “He’s a bit naughty though, put his sharp little teeth in his poor Uncle J, so I decided to break him in for you.” 

That’s when Batman lunges, pushing the camera out of the way, and landing a punch on the Joker’s jaw. 

“Shit,” Barbara cusses. “Tim, I just lost visual. I know the fire escape is on the other side of the roof, but don’t try the doors to the inner staircases, they’re rigged to explode if you try.” 

He hears it, but he doesn’t answer, too focussed on the fight going on in front of him. 

“Tim, I need you to confirm you understand me.” 

Batman takes a blow to the shoulder from the crowbar, but he barely seems to feel it. 

“Tim!” 

He flinches at the sharp tone. 

“Yeah, sorry,” he finally replies shakily. “Copy that, O.” 

“Good, when you get a chance, dash to the rooftop entrance, but like I said, don’t enter it,” she instructs, “sneak behind it, and try and make your way to the fire escape from there.” 

“Okay.” 

It takes a while for him to find a good moment to make the dash, but when the fight keeps edging closer, he decides to just go for it. 

Neither of the participants in the fight appear to notice him running across the rooftop. “I’m behind the rooftop access,” he reports to Barbara, sneaking around to the other side to see where the fight is now. 

“Good, can you make it to the fire escape?” 

“Yeah, I—” Tim cuts off as Joker somehow sweeps Batman of his feet, and immediately moves to pin him. 

The crowbar glints as it’s raised in the air, and the Joker cackles as he starts bringing it down. 

Except, a gauntlet closes around the metal and it’s ripped from Joker’s hand and tossed across the roof, sliding until it comes to a stop at Tim’s feet. By the time he looks up from the crowbar to the fight, Batman is the one pinning a laughing Joker down, and repeatedly hitting him in the head. Barbara’s demanding his attention, but he can’t quite make himself shift his focus away from the gruesome image before him. Time slows and compacts as the shrill, bone-chilling laughter is interrupted by an increasing amount of coughs, only to slowly peter out. 

_ He’s killing him _ , Tim thinks to himself.  _ He’s gonna break the rule. _

And despite the fact that he decided not to be Robin, he can’t quite let Batman do that. 

So Tim runs up and grabs Batman by the elbow. “Stop!” he yells, “It’s enough, you got him.” 

For a fraction of a second, Batman stills. 

Then, without even looking away from Joker’s mangled face, he shakes Tim off, jamming his elbow against his temple in the process. 

There’s enough power to it that he’s knocked on his ass, but the resulting pain in his face doesn’t feel proportional, and now that he thinks about it, the pain was already there from the start of—

Right, he forgot that it’s a dream. 

A memory.

He gets a second to hope that realization will wake him up, but it doesn’t. 

Instead, he’s sucked right back in by a loud crack and Barbara’s urgent voice. 

“Tim, what’s going on?”

“He’s not breathing anymore,” Tim hears himself whisper, and try as he might, he’s just a passenger in his memory at this point. “But he’s not stopping. Why isn’t he stopping?”

Barbara’s voice is steel when she asks, “Who’s not breathing?”

“Joker.” His voice shakes through the name, and he can only hope she’s heard him. 

She has. 

“Get out of there, Tim,” she says, and when he doesn’t immediately move, adds, “now!”

It spurs him into action, scrambling to his feet and running for the fire escape full dash. 

He doesn’t stop for anything, despite his aching body. When he misjudges the final jump to the bottom and is knocked to his hands and knees, he doesn’t even take the time to look for the wire that’s dislodged in the process. 

He’s still distantly aware that he’s not awake, and time takes on that vague stretched yet compacted quality that only dreams can conjure from that point. 

He’s running, and running, and he’s pretty sure he didn’t run that long when it happened. Nor was he at any point actively chased. 

And yet, the running continues.

Right up till something touches his shoulder and someone calls his name. 

-

“Tim?” The voice is vaguely familiar, but Tim is too groggy to place it. “Timmy?” 

He tentatively opens his eyes, and groans when daylight makes the pain in his head spike. He closes his eyes again, and when he makes to grab his throbbing head, gentle but firm fingers grab his wrist before he can touch his face. 

“Hey, no.” The man—he’s pretty sure it’s a man—says. “You don’t wanna be touching that wound with your hand. No offense, but it’s kinda dirty.” 

Tim groans again, but allows his hand to drop into his lap. 

“Can you open your eyes for me?” the voice asks, and Tim doesn’t want to, but he tries anyway. 

The light still causes a spike of pain, but it’s not as bad as the first time. It takes a bit of blinking, but the figure in front of him slowly sharpens into—

Oh. 

The man smiles. “Do you know who I am?” he asks.

It takes a bit to find his voice, so Tim just nods first. When that doesn’t seem to quite satisfy the man, he speaks up.

“Dick Grayson.” 

When that sinks in, Tim finds himself a lot more alert. Why is Dick here? Holy shit, why did  _ he _ of all people need to be the one to find him sleeping against Jason’s grave in a cheap Robin knockoff costume? This is a nightmare. 

The smile he gets for an answer fades when a breeze makes him shiver. Then Dick is moving, taking off his jacket and gently draping it over him. 

“Are you alright, Tim?” he asks. “Where does it hurt?”

And that’s enough to make his breath seize and his memories come rushing all over again. 

From noticing Jason’s absence in school to what happened last night, his life has become a complete shitshow, and he’s just so done with it. He wants to soak into the warm fabric and just not be for a little while, but there are other things on his mind.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. 

Dick looks at him, a bit stunned. 

“You went missing,” he says slowly, as if that answers anything. 

“Yeah, so?” 

“Barbara asked me to help look for you.”

That still doesn’t explain why Dick looks like he hasn’t slept all night. He’s got dark shadows under his eyes and hasn’t shaved. His hair is all over the place, and his shirt is wrinkled. Tim doesn’t get a chance to ask for more of an explanation a second time, as something in Dick seems to break. 

“An innocent, more-or-less civilian kid who was kidnapped and beaten went up in smoke right after escaping from his captor.” Dick sounds somewhere halfway between angry and concerned. “Why the hell wouldn’t I be looking for you?” 

Tim frowns. He doesn’t understand it. Why would Dick care? Even when Batman saved him, he didn’t even look at him. Hadn’t addressed him a single time, even when he was trying to stop him from killing the Joker. 

The logical conclusion is that Batman was never there to help Tim, he was there for Joker.

And isn’t that a doozy? That even at a time like that, he isn’t worth expending energy on?

“Tim?” 

He’s being rude, just staring at Dick in confusion like he is. 

“I don’t get it,” he says, trying to make up for zoning out and making the man in front of him worry. And Dick  _ is _ worrying. It’s obvious in the set of his brow and the tension in his shoulders. 

“You don’t get what?” he asks. 

“Why you’d waste energy on me, just because Babs asked?”

Every time Tim thinks Dick couldn’t possibly look more worried, he’s proven wrong. “Tim,” he says slowly, as if weighing each word carefully before saying it. “Even if Babs hadn’t asked me to, I would have gone looking for you.”

It’s stupid, Tim knows. But he doesn’t understand, and he  _ hates _ not understanding and it’s making his eyes tear up in frustration. 

“Why?” 

He also hates how vulnerable he sounds. 

Something seems to click in Dick’s head, and his face softens into something Tim usually only sees in Barbara and Alfred and—actually, that list seems to be growing rather fast lately. 

Dick’s voice pulls Tim back out of his own head. “I don’t know how much Babs has told you about our social circle,” he says, and Tim has a stray thought that that’s a clever way of referring to the hero community before he continues, “but helping those in need is just what we do.” 

And that. Well, something doesn’t add up. Because Batman is part of that ‘social circle’, and he never showed any inclination toward helping Tim. He flat out refused to. 

So does that mean he’s not good enough to help? Is he not important enough? It’s gotta be him, right? Something he did that Batman sees and the rest can’t and that’s why they keep trying to help him when in fact he’s not worthy of said help. 

Because there’s no lie in Dick’s eyes. He truly believes Tim is deserving of his assistance, and while he’s known for a while now that it’s not true, it’s still a hard truth to be faced with. Something in him rebels at the idea of it.

A gasp escapes him despite his best efforts to not make things worse than they already are, and as pain shoots through his side he shakes his head, tears dislodging from his lids. 

“No,” he whispers, and now Dick’s the one that looks confused, and that’s unacceptable. “That’s not how it works. It can’t be.”

“Why not?” Dick asks gently, earnestly. 

“Because if that’s true, then why didn’t Batman save my parents?!” Dick looks like Tim slapped him in the face. “Why did he call it low priority? What did I do that’s so bad that it wasn’t worth even trying?”

The man that spends his nights flipping between buildings in the Nightwing costume looks taken aback at his outburst. 

“I don’t—” he starts, but Tim needs a straight answer and he knows that whatever Dick was about to say isn’t the one he’s looking for, so he interrupts him.

“You lived with him for  _ years _ , you’ve got to know how he thinks.” He’s desperate, and his tears blur his vision, but not enough to avoid seeing the sheer panicked realisation in Dick’s eyes as it clicks home just what Tim is asking him. “I’ve watched him for years. With you, with Jason. I’ve watched him carry victims out of buildings, watched him hand cards out to people only doing bad things because they had no other choice. I’ve watched him give bad guys chance after chance after chance to change. I’ve seen him cut off a chase so he could help a scared woman to her home after she got mugged. So why? Why was I the one that was dubbed ‘low priority’? Why aren’t I enough to stop what he’s doing and  _ help?” _

His breath is heaving when he abruptly stops talking. His side flashes with pain on every inhale, the right side of his face burning with pressure, and something warm trickles down his temple. 

Heat seeps through fabric on his left side as Dick settles next to him. The pedestal isn’t that wide, so in order for him to be able to lean his back against it, he has to sit close enough to Tim that their arms are touching. The silence is deafening. Through his still streaming tears, he has no way of reading Dick’s expression, though he thinks it looks mildly pained. 

When Dick breaks the silence, his voice is soft. 

“I want you to know the only reason I’m not hugging you right now is because I don’t know the extent of your injuries, and I don’t want to risk making anything worse.” Tim wants to tell him that’s ridiculous, that he doesn’t deserve that kind of comfort. Hadn’t he listened to a single thing he said? He wants to demand an actual answer. Dick doesn’t give him the chance. “Of course you deserve our help, Tim. Never doubt that.” 

His breath hitches again, and he’s so tired now. Like he’s spent all the energy he gained from his nap in one go. “But—” 

“No, but,” Dick says. “I don’t know how or why you came into a position to hear Batman say that—although considering what you just told me, and your connection to Babs, I have some Ideas—but him not helping you when you needed it is on him, not on you.” 

A new reserve of tears appears to open, and Tim starts crying with renewed intensity. It’s exactly what he does and doesn’t want to hear at the same time. 

Neither of them talks, Tim not even halfway capable of processing anymore, and Dick seemingly lost on how to comfort a virtual stranger. A tentative arm settles around his shoulders, and he can’t quite keep himself from leaning into it. Or at least, lean into it as much as his aching side allows. He rests his head against the sturdy shoulder and when gentle fingers card through his hair he gives up any form of resistance and curls into the comfort given him while he cries it out. 

It should feel wrong, being comforted like this by Dick. 

Much like with Jason, the amount of times he’s talked to Dick one-on-one were few and far between. Even more so considering the larger age gap. They’ve been introduced, and they know of each other in passing, but there’s not much more than that. 

So Tim shouldn’t trust Dick like this. Shouldn’t allow him to see him in such a vulnerable state, shouldn’t allow himself to be comforted. But this is also Nightwing. The first Robin. The boy in Tim’s first pictures, and the teen who liked teasing his little brother before taking him out for chili dogs. If Tim’s not safe with him, then who would he be safe with?

Dick doesn’t shush him or ask him to talk. Just tells him one more time he’s totally worth saving, and keeps carding his fingers through his hair until Tim calms down. 

Eventually, his breathing evens out, and his tears dry. Not long after that, he starts feeling a bit awkward in the half-embrace. When he moves to sit back and lean against the marble again, pain flares up his side and he hisses. 

Which, of course, earns him Dick’s full attention. 

“Shit,” he cusses, “your injuries.” 

In a flash, he’s crouching in front of Tim again, digging through a backpack. 

“So, the obvious one I can see is your head, and judging from how you’re moving and the impact you received yesterday, I’d say your ribs,” Dick says, shifting into detached professionalism with apparent ease. “Is there anything else that hurts?”

Tim needs a moment to take inventory of his body. His feet hurt a bit from running as far as he did in bad shoes, his legs are overly cold, and his hands and knees throb a little from where he scraped them at some point. 

He repeats the list to Dick. 

“Anything else?” he asks as he pulls a first aid kit and a blanket from the backpack.

Tim shakes his head while Dick covers his legs with the blanket. “I’m sorry about this,” he says, “but I need to make sure we don’t have to get you to a hospital. Is it alright if I take a look at your wounds?” 

Tim frowns, but nods. This is gonna suck. 

Dick helps him sit up and take off the top of the fake Robin suit. In any other situation he’d blush and babble to explain that he didn’t isn’t wearing it by choice, but as it is, he’s just tired from the crying and happy to be rid of it, even if his ribs scream in pain in the process of removing it.

As Dick feels along his ribs, Tim looks down to find deep bruising along the left side of his rib cage, about halfway down. At least the crowbar didn’t break his skin anywhere. 

“Do you have trouble breathing?” Dick asks as he examines his ribs one by one. 

“It hurts,” Tim admits. “But I don’t think it’s functionally impaired.” 

He takes a deep breath to test it, and winces when it makes his pain flare. It doesn’t keep him from taking a full breath, though. Dick glances up at him sympathetically when he winces, but seems to come to the same conclusion. 

Tim flinches a couple times when Dick touches particularly painful spots, but he grits his teeth through it. 

After a while, Dick hums to himself and sits back to grab something from the backpack. 

“Well, we’ll need an x-ray to be sure, but I don’t think any of your ribs are broken,” he says as he pulls out a familiar hoodie. “Bruised, definitely, but not broken. Think you can put this on?”

Tim grimaces. “I might need some help.”

Dick’s face softens from the clinical expression he’d taken on earlier. 

“That’s alright.” 

It’s obvious Dick has experience with rib injuries, as he knows exactly how manoeuvre Tim to get him into the hoodie with minimal pain. 

When he’s got it on, Dick drapes the jacket back over his shoulders and turns to the first aid kit, pulling on some gloves after digging out gauze and antiseptic.

“I’ll need to clean your head wound to see how bad it is.” 

“Okay.” 

It stings when Dick cleans the wound, but Tim bears it. The area around his eye socket is sensitive when Dick feels along it, but there are no flashes of pain. 

Dick visibly relaxes. “Looks like your eye socket is intact. The head wound needs stitches, and while I’d rather do that somewhere else, we’re nearing the time limit for it.”

When Tim just stares at him while he’s preparing the suture kit and anaesthesia, he pauses. 

“I promise I’m qualified, but I can take you to a doctor if you’re uncomfortable with me doing it.” 

Tim comes back to himself. 

“No,” he says. “It’s alright. Babs said it’s standard procedure for all of you to learn the basics, and I’d like to avoid going to a hospital if at all possible.” 

Beside the extra media attention that would grab him, Babs and he had decided that publically accessible places where she can’t be with him twenty-four-seven are a no-no. Just like they had agreed going to the cemetery on his own was taboo, but whatever.

“Okay.” Dick sounds like he wants to ask about that statement, but instead turns back to the syringe. “If you’re allergic to lidocaine, you need to tell me now.”

“Not that I’m aware of.” 

As Dick moves to inject the thin needle under Tim’s skin, he says, “Speaking of Babs, I wasn’t aware you and she were close.”

Tim hisses a bit when the needle enters his skin, but can’t quite help the knee-jerk snark the comment pulls out of him. 

“I wasn’t aware you know who I am beyond, you know, my name.”

Dick pulls back to give him an unimpressed look. 

“Little Timmy, from next door,” he says. “Attends Gotham Academy. Always seemed a bit lonely at the Gotham high society stuff until you started hanging out with my little brother—whose grave you’re incidentally leaning against. Of course I know who you are.”

Tim’s shocked into silence as Dick turns to dispose of the syringe.

“Tim,” he says when Dick turns back. 

“Hm?”

“Not Timmy. Tim.” 

Dick grins a bit.

“Alright then, Tim,” he says. “The lidocaine needs a bit to start working, so let’s take a look at your more minor injuries in the meantime.” 

Dick somehow tricks him into small talk while first cleaning the scrapes on Tim’s hands and knees, and then carefully taking off the crappy pixy boots and treating the blisters they caused. He pulls out a pair of sweats and some socks, and Tim couldn’t be happier to see those. 

“Why didn’t you give those to me earlier?” he asks as he takes the sweats. “I’m freezing.” 

Dick looks apologetic. “Sorry, got distracted by the major injuries.”

Tim throws a half-hearted glare his way before wincing as he tries to bend forward to pull the sweats on over those terrible panties. The real suits don’t even have panties.

Dick smiles and shifts so he can replace Tim’s hands with his. “Let me.” 

“Thanks,” he mumbles. 

Dick glances up at him. “You’re welcome.”

As he reaches over to test how well the anesthesia is working, it occurs to Tim that he feels lighter now. That Dick has intentionally dragged his focus away from the earlier topics of conversation and teased a smile onto his face. 

When he reaches up with the suture kit, he says, “You should feel the stitches, but it shouldn’t hurt, so tell me if it does.” 

“Okay.”

“And while I’m doing this, why don’t you tell me how you and Babs got close, cause she just starts laughing when I ask.” 

And at the image of Babs messing with Dick, Tim can’t help but mess with the man a little himself. 

“We bonded over a mutual opinion that some people need to put more effort into their security,” he says lightly, “digital or otherwise.” 

Dick frowns, but doesn’t stop what he’s doing. 

“What does that mean?”

He sounds so confused, and Tim grins a little despite himself. 

“It means she caught me hacking and breaking and entering into places that an untrained fourteen year old shouldn’t be able to get into.”

That _ does _ make Dick pause. 

“And she decided to, what? Take you in to better your ways? Train you for the greater good?” 

Tim wrinkles his nose. 

“She’s not Bruce,” he says. “Babs doesn’t work like that.” 

Dick goes back to his work. 

“Besides,” Tim says. “My parents were still alive back then. I didn’t move into the clocktower until after their funeral.” 

“I heard about that,” Dick says softly, “I’m sorry.” 

“Yeah, me too,” Tim whispers. “But Babs has been great. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

Dick ties the final stitch and cuts it off. 

“There are a lot of people that feel that way about her,” he says. 

Tim huffs and accepts the ibuprofen and bottled water Dick hands him. 

“I bet there are,” he says, “and half of them don’t even know it’s her they’re relying on.”

The way Dick’s eyebrows climb to his hairline makes him frown again. 

“Did Babs really not tell you about me?” 

“No.” Dick shakes his head. “Just that you’re her temporary ward, and I saw the adoption paperwork, so I assumed you’re working on making it permanent. And considering some of the things you casually mentioned, I’d say she either told you, or you already knew.” 

Tim deadpans. “I’m not saying anything else unless we’ve got more privacy. This talking in circles is getting ridiculous.”

Comprehension blooms on Dicks face, and he nods before reaching for the backpack again and pulling a device out that Tim immediately recognizes. After watching Dick fiddle with it for a couple of seconds, he huffs and holds his hand out. “Give it.”

Dick frowns at him, raising his eyebrows, but hands the device over. Tim starts tapping through the menus, keying in passwords Babs made him memorize to activate the system.

“Um, what the hell?” Dick asks, but he also reaches for the backpack again. 

“Shush, I nearly got it,” Tim says while tapping the last few commands to activate the signal jammer. “There.” 

He turns to Dick with a grin. “Now we can talk.” 

“Who the hell  _ are _ you?” Dick asks, all the while taking out a pair of shoes and helping Tim put them on.

He gives him a shit eating grin. “I’m Tim. I thought we covered that.” 

“Well, Tim,” Dick says as he moves to sit next to him again, “I really hope this means I’ll get some sort of explanation now, because frankly, you’re starting to creep me out a little.” 

Tim can see why Babs likes teasing him so much, but this isn’t quite the time. 

He sighs. “I used to just be the kid that liked to go out at night and climb rooftops to take pictures of Batman and Robin, but after Jason… Well, let’s just say everything’s changed.” 

Dick frowns. “You went out at night. To take pictures of vigilantes fighting crime?” 

Tim huffs, then winces. “Yeah, you don’t have to give me the that’s-so-dangerous-what-were-you-thinking speech. Babs has got it covered.”

“Is that how you met? Did she find you on the roofs?” 

“What? Back when she was Batgirl?” Tim asks, and Dick nods. “Nah. Like I said. She found me snooping around in a network I shouldn’t have been able to get into—looking at the Gotham public library personnel files, to be exact—and when she looked into me further, she uncovered some other hacking I did, as well as a slightly suspect trip I made across the country around the time someone broke into a place that’s really not as secure as it ought to be.” 

In a way, it’s hilarious to see the cogs turning in Dick’s head without him getting anywhere. 

“So when I came into the library one day acting shifty, she pulled me aside after giving me an honest to god heart attack, and we talked in her office, even though I warned her I had sensitive things to say.” 

Dick groans, apparently seeing where this is going. 

“I didn’t even get a full sentence in before she decided to relocate. Later, she called me a little shit for starting like that on purpose. But that did lead to the bonding over the lack of security measures in certain places. When she found out about some of my information acquisition strategies—which included but were not limited to taking pictures of the dynamic duo at night and hacking—and the close calls I had in the weeks before that, she decided I needed to be trained.” 

Dick’s eyes widen, and Tim can practically see the puzzle pieces click into place as his eyes dart to the hoodie—the same one Tim used to wear while taking pictures—and back to his face. “You’re that kid that fell off the fire escape a while ago, aren’t you?” 

Tim flushes, looks at his knees, and gives a tiny nod. “I’m sorry for listening in on a private conversation,” he says, “I didn’t mean to, I was there before Batman, and I was afraid you’d hear me if I tried to leave. Then later, I couldn’t leave because—” Tim stops himself, embarrassed. “It doesn’t matter. And then, when Bruce was gone, and you were so out of it, I figured I could get away, but I slipped.” 

Tim falls silent, and Dick hums. “I understand, I think. It was… not one of our better moments. I’m sorry you had to hear that.” Dick pauses, seeming to think something over. “Now, I don’t want you to take this as a green light to go do reckless stuff like that all the time, but I was pretty impressed with how you got yourself down safely.” 

Tim flushes. “Thanks. I, um, took some freerunning courses last year. Seemed like a good idea with the amount of rooftop climbing I do. And, uh, I used to watch you a lot, back when you were still Robin, so there’s that…” Tim trails off when he sees Dick’s eyes widen comically. 

“Just how long have you been taking your pictures, Tim?” 

“Years?”

Dick groans, closes his eyes, and slaps his hand to his forehead while leaning back against the marble. “I can’t believe none of us never noticed. Not sure if that means you’re a natural or if we just overestimate ourselves.” 

“That’s pretty much what Babs said.” Tim fiddles with his sleeves a bit before looking back up at Dick. “Right before she made me promise to bring her the grapnel gun I stole from a certain San Francisco based vigilante’s severely underprotected apartment so she could teach me how to use it properly.” 

Dick’s head whips in his direction. “That was you, too?!” 

“Did I mention your stash is pretty neat?” Tim knows the grin he's wearing isn't particularly nice, but he doesn't care. He’s got the opportunity to mess with one of the people he admires the most in this world. He's not about to let it go to waste. Also, he tends to go a bit loopy on ibuprofen. 

Dick groans. “You're a little shit,” he says, as if he's just realized it. “Of course you would be, if both Jason and Babs like you this much.” 

Tim's smile softens into something kinder. “To be fair, you would’ve totally caught me if you hadn't been attacked right after.”

“What makes you say that? Wait, no. How do you know about that? Weren't you long gone?”

“Nah, I was hiding in the garbage container.” Tim wrinkles his nose and Dick chokes on a bit of laughter. “Didn't dare come out until social media reported both you and Starfire to be fighting downtown. Felt dirty for days afterwards.” 

“I'd say that's karma at play,” Dick says then. “Don't think I didn't notice you taking stabs at my home security system, you little shit.”

“When a fourteen year old breaks into your house and manages to make their way into your armory without you noticing, it deserves to be made fun of.”

“Why do I feel like you're quoting Babs?” 

“Probably because I am.”

Dick starts laughing then. 

“Little. Shit.” It sounds fond to Tim, though. 

“So,” he says after a while. “Grapnel lessons, huh? Anything else Babs decided to share with you?” 

“Oh, you know,” he says, casually. “Gymnastics, hand to hand combat, stealth, lock picking, hacking, escape arts. Useful things like that.”

Dick frowns. “Useful things for an aspiring vigilante, you mean.” 

Tim shrugs. “Well, yeah. But also vital when you're trying to survive while possibly being hunted by the international criminal organization which killed your parents for mostly unknown reasons.” 

“You seem rather nonchalant about that.” 

“I’m not,” Tim says. “But it’s been my reality for long enough that I’m used to it, and at this point, I can’t really do any more about it than I’m already doing.” 

Dick doesn’t seem to know how to react to that, and they quiet down for a bit. 

“Can I ask you something?” he asks after a while, and Tim snorts. 

“You mean you haven’t been asking questions so far?”

Dick chuckles. “Fair enough.”

When he doesn’t immediately ask his question, Tim prompts him. “Well?” 

“Why run here?” he asks quietly. “Why Jason’s grave, and not your parents’?” 

And how can Tim explain that? How can he tell Dick that when he doesn’t know what to do with himself, either because of joy or grief, he gravitates towards this place? That he doesn’t even know how he became as ensnared in the habit as he is? 

How can he tell Dick he comes here to pour his heart out to the man’s dead brother because that’s safe? 

“You don’t have to explain if you don’t want to,” Dick says softly, and Tim knows it’s true. He can hold his tongue and Dick won’t judge him for it because he’s safe. Just like Jason.

Tim worries his lower lip, and then takes the leap. 

“Jason’s safe,” he whispers, “he always has been.” 

-

In some ways, the GCPD’s New Year’s reception is easier to attend than the Wayne gala. There are more kids, so it’s easier to escape his mother’s keen eye, and there is more entertainment to his tastes as well. 

In other ways, it’s worse. 

Case in point; Tim is bored out of his mind. The adults aren’t bothering him, but the other kids don’t seem to want to get anywhere near ‘the rich kid’, either. 

When he’d asked some of them what game they were playing when he spotted them with a deck of cards in one of the side rooms, but they’d told him a ‘rich kid like him’ wasn’t welcome. 

Figures, really. 

Moments like that make Tim very grateful he has Ives and the gang. They don’t care if his jeans are the kind that cost more, and they will feel no hesitation whatsoever to tell him he’s being an ass and hit him over the head when he complains about tonight at school in a few days. 

Doesn’t change the fact that he’s bored as hell, though. Tim wanders back over to the buffet table, intent on getting himself a second dessert, but is stopped when someone calls out to him. 

“Tim!” someone calls over the din, and when he turns to look he freezes in shock. 

What does Dick Grayson want with him? Since when are the Waynes even here? Granted, they usually are for events like this one, but still. What’s with this recent spree of interactions Tim has with them? 

He waves and smiles politely as he waits for Dick to come closer. And, oh crap, Nightwing is walking straight at him!

“Hi,” he says, because Dick always looks at him weirdly when he tries a more formal greeting. He’s still going over a disturbingly short list of things Dick could want from him, getting increasingly stressed as time passes. 

Dick smiles. “Tim. Hi! Have you seen Jason?”

Oh. Well, that’s a relatively innocent question. Why the hell is he asking Tim, though? 

He shakes his head, “Didn’t even know you guys were here until now, sorry.” 

Dick just smiles wider. “Really?” he asks. “Odd. Well, if you see him, tell him I’m looking for him?” 

“Sure.”

“Thanks!” And just like that, Dick is off again. 

Tim isn’t quite sure whether he’s glad the conversation wasn’t long enough for him to make a fool of himself, or disappointed he didn’t get to talk to Nightwing some more. 

Ugh. What the hell? If he starts thinking like that, he’s been spoiled with the sheer amount of time Jason’s spent talking to him. 

He goes back to his quest for goodies, but doesn’t get far before he’s interrupted again. This time, a hand shoots out of a shadow to grab him by the elbow and drag him in. 

Tim doesn’t think about it, just acts. He’s been going to self defense classes lately, and he’s turned and raised a fist to jam down on a collarbone on instinct in an instant. It’s not until a larger hand catches his wrist mid-swing that he sees who it is. 

“Whoa, Tim. Careful,” Jason says. “Sorry, didn’t mean to spook you.”

_ Oh, fuck. I just tried to attack Robin, _ Tim thinks, and the sheer horror he feels at that is hard to describe.

“J-Jason!” he stammers. “Shit. Sorry. Are you okay?” 

But Jason just smiles. “Hey, it’s fine. I shouldn’t have just grabbed you, that’s my bad. Gotta say, though. That’s some solid self defense instinct you’ve got there. I’m lucky I’ve got good reflexes.” 

Tim frowns. “You sure?”

“Yeah, of course,” Jason says, but there’s tension to him somehow. “I’m actually kinda glad you’d react like that when someone drags you into the shadows. Little kid like you, I bet there’s plenty bastards out there that think they can get away with shit.” 

Tim blushes and tries not to think of that one guy that had made a grab for him a couple months back. He’s pretty sure he didn’t break the guy’s collar bone, but he hurt him enough to get away at least. 

“So, what did Dickhead want from you?” 

Tim looks up to see Jason looks a bit fidgety now, and thinks he must have missed something. “Huh?”

“My shithead brother, what did he want from you?” Jason asks again, the tension clear in the set of his shoulders. When Tim just sort of stares at him for a second instead of answering, it opens a whole floodgate of follow ups. “Did he say anything? Weird, I mean. Did he say anything weird? I bet he did, Dickhead always does. What did he say? Whatever it is, it’s not true. Unless he said something nice. Did he? No wait. Even if he did say something nice, it’s best not to believe him. Honestly just tell me what he said, and I’ll go kick his ass.”

As he keeps ranting, his expression is really intense and worried. That is, until he suddenly cuts himself off, face turning bright red. 

That’s what does it for Tim, and he bursts out laughing. 

In reaction, Jason groans and covers his face with one hand. 

“Oh my god, if you’re laughing at me that much it’s gotta be bad,” he grumbles. “I swear that bastard made it his life goal to make mine as awkward and humiliating as he possibly can.”

That sobers Tim up a bit. 

“I’m not exactly laughing at you, Jason.” At the doubtful look he sends his way, Tim amends the statement. “Well, a bit. But not because Dick said anything stupid about you.”

Jason’s face is still red, and he still looks mildly suspicious, so Tim elaborates. 

“He just asked me if I’d seen you, he was looking for you,” Tim explains. “Though why he thought he should specifically ask me, I don’t know.” 

To his great surprise, that causes Jason to go red all over again. “Yeah,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “I wonder why.” 

Tim notices Jason seems to be glaring at someone. When he follows his gaze, he sees Dick on the other side of the room, waving and smiling before turning back to the conversation he’s having with Miss Gordon. 

“I swear I’m gonna pummel him when we get home,” Jason grumbles under his breath, but Tim doesn’t think he means it. 

Now that he’s seen them though, he can feel Miss Gordon’s and Dick’s eyes on him. 

“Are they gonna keep staring at us?” he asks. “Why did he ask me where you were if he isn’t gonna come talk to you?”

“Don’t think too much about it,” Jason grumbles. “No one knows what goes on in that idiot’s head, and it’s doubly dangerous when he starts scheming with Babs.”

Tim’s not so sure that means he shouldn’t think about it, though. “Okay...”

Jason sighs and turns to him. “Look, let’s go find some place a bit quieter, preferably away from busybodies.” 

A smile spreads without Tim’s conscious permission. “Sure.” 

They end up on a balcony overlooking the room which is somehow cloaked in shadows. No one else is up there, and they settle on the ground with their backs against the railings. 

By this time, Jason seems to have regained his composure as well as his good mood. 

“Has Jenkins given you any more trouble?” he asks, and Tim shakes his head. 

“No,” he says. “He tried once, a couple days later in the hallway, but Mr. Baker was walking by, and he got detention for calling me names.” 

Jason grunts. “Asshole deserves it.” It’s weirdly protective, and Tim feels warm at the thought. “Must have been pretty nasty if they gave him detention for calling you names, though.” 

Tim shrugs. “He called me a distinctly less kind version of gay. Which is really stupid to do in front of Mr. Baker, as I’m pretty sure he’s got a husband.” 

“ _ What? _ ” Just like that, Jason’s good mood is gone again, and Tim feels himself going on the defensive. 

“Mr. Baker is gay himself,” he says, acid in his voice. “And you better not make me regret telling you that, because he gets enough shit from some of the parents. He doesn’t need it from you.” 

Jason blinks and sits back a little. “What? No,” he says. “The opposite. I fucking hate it when those homophobic turds think they’ve got the right to judge someone based on who they like. Mr. Baker’s cool. It shouldn’t matter who he goes home to at the end of the day.” 

The tension in Tim’s shoulders recedes, and relief washes through him. “Oh, yeah. That’s true,” he says, smiling apologetically. “Sorry. I get a bit touchy over that particular topic.” 

Jason pulls up one knee, folding his hands around his shin. “Yeah, I get that. People are such assholes. I learned a long time ago not to judge.” 

“Yeah?”

He shrugs. “Comes with having a brother who’s dating an admittedly hot alien and a dad who flits from one affair to the next. As long as there’s mutual consent, who cares?” 

“So what I’m getting here is, you don’t care who someone’s into, as long as they ask nicely first?” 

“And understand the meaning of the word no. That part’s very important.” Jason grins, then sobers. “It’s more than that, though.”

If anyone had told Tim he’d be discussing sexuality ethics with  _ Robin, _ of all people, a couple of weeks ago, he would’ve laughed in their faces. Now, he just goes with it. That seems to be the easiest way when interacting with Jason. It doesn’t feel weird to talk to him about these things, and that’s a first for Tim, so it’s nice to be able to open up a bit. 

“Hm?”

Jason huffs, and pulls his other knee up as well. It occurs to Tim that it’s a defensive position, and he wonders if Jason feels uncomfortable speaking to him about this. 

“I think people in general judge too fast,” he says. “And it’s not just the rich or the poor. Everyone has something to say about everybody else. But who cares what that girl you pass on the street does in her free time, as long as it’s not hurting anyone else? Who cares if your brother or friend or partner has an unconventional hobby? What kind of community are we living in that one of my classmates is afraid to tell her so-called friends that her gran is teaching her how to knit, because it makes her feel closer to her?” 

The speech is more passionate than Tim would have expected, but maybe he should have. Jason’s known at school for not taking shit from anyone, but he never seems to give other people trouble either. 

“So, yeah. No judgement,” he ends with, and Tim feels a whole new level of respect for the other boy click into place. 

“That’s a really nice way of looking at it,” he says earnestly. “I could probably learn a bit from it.” 

Jason smiles at him. “I don’t know, I think you’re doing pretty well,” he says. “After all, you’re here hanging out with the guy half of Gotham calls street filth and the other half calls traitor.”

Tim grits his teeth. “Yeah well, that’s just stupid. Those people don’t know you. What gives them the right to call you one or the other?”

“Exactly,” Jason laughs, and he ruffles Tim’s hair again, causing him to grumble and inch away a little. 

“Why’d you have to go and ruin it by doing that?” he whines, but Jason just laughs louder. 

“I told you, you need to grow about half a foot before people stop doing it, kid.” 

Tim grumbles something unintelligible, and he’s not quite sure where he was going with that sentence anyway, but his annoyance is conveyed, so that’s what matters. 

Silence settles over them for a while then, and he takes the time to marvel at how comfortable it is to just sit with Jason like this. The reception continues behind them, but for now, they’re alone, and there’s no need to fill the silence if they don’t want to. 

The thing is, Tim kinda wants to. He’s just not sure how to, or what he can talk about. But then he remembers the no judgement thing, and just goes with it. 

“Did you watch any more Doctor Who?” he asks, and it’s a hit, because Jason positively lights up. 

“Yeah, I’m in the second season now. Finally get the whole regeneration thing. That’s pretty neat, actually.”

Tim mirrors the grin without thinking about it. “Yeah? Cool. What do you think of the tenth Doctor?” 

If possible, Jason’s grin grows. “He’s like an Energizer Bunny on crack.”

That throws him off for a second. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” 

“Good? I think?” Jason says. “I’m not quite sure yet. It’s amusing, but it might get old.” 

“I guess. What’s the last one you saw?” 

“The werewolves attacking Queen Victoria.”

As they keep talking, Tim feels the urge to say something. He’s happy to be talking about Doctor Who, but he feels like he wasn’t done with the other topic yet. Like he needs to share that one thing he’s never shared with anyone with Jason. Not because he should, but because Jason wouldn’t mind. It’s safe for him to know, and Tim feels like he’s been suppressing this part of himself for a long time. Not because he can’t accept it but because he doesn’t expect others to. 

But Jason?

Jason would. 

“You know,” he says when the conversation lulls. “Jack Harkness is the reason I realised I like boys.” 

Jason falls silent and the mood turns serious, and for a second Tim thinks he’s made a terrible mistake. He tenses up as he waits for a reply. Any reply. But Jason just looks at him for a long time. 

“Yeah?” he says after a bit. “That’s fair, I suppose. He’s pretty hot, and he’s got the smile and the confidence down. Reminds me a bit too much of Malcolm Merlyn for my tastes, though.”

Tim wrinkles his nose. “Yeah, I hadn’t met Mr. Merlyn yet back then.”

“He’s such a creep, seriously.” 

Jason fidgets around a bit then, seemingly uncomfortable. 

“Can I ask you something?” he asks after Tim waits him out. 

“You just did.” 

“You’re a little shit, you know that, right?” 

Tim smirks. “You aren’t the first to inform me.” 

When Jason just shakes his head a little, Tim adds, “So, the question?”

“Right,” he says. “Considering how defensive you got before, are there people who give you shit for liking boys?” 

Oh. Right. Tim should have expected that question, to be honest. 

“Uhm, not really,” he says, shifting around uncomfortably. “It’s kinda hard to give me shit about something when you don’t know it. The only reason Jenkins thinks I’m gay is because I made a bit of an unlucky comment last year and didn’t deny it when he accused me of being gay later.” 

The longer he talks, the stormier Jason’s expression gets. “Unlucky comment?”

“Uh, yeah.” Shit. Tim really doesn’t want to say the next bit, can already feel his face heating up, so he looks studiously down at his knees. His brain is still scrambling for a believable lie when his mouth opens and spills the truth. “I may have informed him he doesn’t have the legs to get away with a Robin costume for Halloween.” 

“You didn’t.” It sounds kinda strangled, and when he looks back up, Jason’s face is bright red. 

Yep, now he made it awkward. Good job, Tim. Well, might as well dig himself a little deeper. “I mean, you probably haven’t seen his legs, but I have P.E. with him. He’s got the scrawniest legs ever. Totally not Robin worthy.” 

Jason chokes on his laughter then, still red in the face, tears gathering in the corners. 

“Oh my god, stop,” he chokes out. “You’re killing me. You really said that?” 

Tim’s sure his face is pretty much glowing at this point, so he shrugs, and says, “Not in those exact words, but something like it.” 

“That’s amazing. No wonder he went for the gay card. The idiot probably felt he needed to defend his masculinity.” Jason’s still laughing, wiping tears from his eyes. “Jesus, you’re savage.”

“Yeah, well. The experience has sorta soured telling anyone else, so it was a double edged sword in the end.” 

That sobers Jason up almost instantly. “No one?” he asks. 

Tim bites his lips and shakes his head. “Not until I told you, just now.” 

The softest smile graces Jason’s face, and he says. “Thanks. For trusting me with it.” 

Somehow, they end up leaning against each other, and Tim feels his energy dwindle. “Thanks for not judging,” he mumbles. 

Jason doesn’t answer for the longest time, but when he does, his voice is little more than a whisper. 

“It would be kinda hypocritical of one gay to judge another for it, right?” 

Tim doesn’t remember if he answered. 

-

“Jason was nothing but nice to me,” Tim says sleepily, the tiny amount of sleep he’d gotten not nearly enough to battle his exhaustion now that the painkillers are kicking in. “I just wish we could have been friends. It felt like we were going there, at least.”

He’s leaning heavily against Dick’s side, but the other man doesn’t seem to mind and he’s honestly too tired to do anything about it. 

“I know Jason was hoping to be your friend,” Dick says, and drowsy as he is, it makes Tim smile. 

“Really?” he asks, his consciousness quickly slipping away. 

“Really,” Dick whispers, and Tim hums happily while letting his eyes close. 

Before he slips into a deep sleep with significantly more peaceful dreams, he hears Dick murmur, “I just wish he’d gotten around to telling you he wanted more than that.” 


	13. Unspoken Confessions And Grave Robbin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I came to say goodbye.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Last one for this story, hope you'll enjoy it!
> 
> More notes after the chapter!

The final time Tim stands before Jason's grave to talk to him, it's raining again. Fall has well and truly arrived, and his umbrella can't completely save him from the torrents that precede the oncoming storm. It’s so dark, he can barely see the grave and he almost considers not talking at all, convinced he won't hear himself over the cacophony of the falling rain. 

That would feel like the wrong way to end this habit, though, and he's very aware this is the last time he'll be here. He wouldn't even have had this chance if he hadn't sneaked out of the clock tower (and isn't that a kicker, that he can manage that now). 

“Hey Jason,” he says, taking comfort in the familiarity of it. “I came to say goodbye.”

He doesn't want to. Wouldn't leave Gotham at all if he had any other choice. 

“Babs and Dick decided it's safer to move somewhere else. Made me promise not to say it out loud in case the people hunting me are still somehow listening in.” It's been over a month since Gotham fell into chaos. Since he was captured by the Joker and watched Batman kill the clown. His ribs are healing well and he’s been training carefully with Babs, and now Dick as well. They tell him he’s making good progress, but it feels like slow going to him. 

Although, he _ can _ feel the way his movements are more fluid now. The endless stretching Dick is making him do is worth it, even if he'll never be quite as flexible or graceful as his new teacher is. 

“The press came up with a new nickname for me yesterday; ‘the Rope Whisperer’, as if ‘the Boy Who Bites’ wasn't bad enough.” He'd thought the press had been bad when he was ‘the sad Drake heir, orphaned in a horrible kidnapping gone wrong’. Now he's also the kid who was forcefully dressed in a Robin costume, bit the Joker on live television, and is the only potential witness to whatever happened on that rooftop that resulted in the Joker’s death. 

Potential, because Tim lied and said he ran at the first opportunity. Even now, testifying against Batman isn't something he wants to do. Not that there are many among the GCPD or the DA’s office who want to prosecute. 

“Honestly, I wish they would leave me alone. They have no right to expect me to relive that nightmare just to sate their curiosity.”

At least Babs was able to convince the judge to speed up the adoption process by explaining part of the situation with his parents. When the FBI dropped the investigation without warning, Barbara had become concerned about the reach of Mr. Head, someone they still know far too little about. That's why no one knows that, as of yesterday, his name is Timothy Jackson Gordon-Drake. 

Signing the papers had felt both like finally finding a home and like he was betraying his parents’ memories. 

Yet another thing he's not supposed to talk about. 

“No one's seen Bruce since last week. He hasn't been home. Although, now that Alfred left the manor we have no way to be certain he's not in the cave.” Tim bites his lower lip. “We invited him to come with us, but he says he wants to leave for a while.”

It had been hard to see the usually composed man as lost as he was in the realization he could no longer support the man he'd spent the past three decades caring for. 

“Dick thinks Bruce finally went off the deep end.” Tim shivers as he thinks back to that particular conversation. “I don't know if I agree. He hasn't killed anyone else, as far as we know, but he's made it very clear none of the others are welcome in Gotham anymore.”

Dinah had paid for fighting him on that with a dislocated shoulder.

“He needs help, Jason. But I don't think any of us can help him anymore.” 

A few days after the incident, Bruce tried to come see Tim in the clocktower, but Babs and Dick stopped him from going upstairs to Tim’s room. However, by that time he’d been so bored with lying in his bed all day that he’d taken to exploring the watchtower system. 

It’s not hacking when the device you’re using is already part of the network, right?

Either way, he’d been able to listen in to Barbara tearing Bruce a new one for not prioritizing Tim’s safety and for harming him. Bruce had very quietly left after that. 

“At this point, Babs says we can only hope something makes him see the light before it escalates too far, but I’m not sure what that something would be.” Tim’s had a lot of time to think lately, and he has come to a conclusion. “One thing’s for sure. If I want to be useful at all, I need to be a lot stronger. I need to be smarter. I need more intel. And I won’t be getting those things here.” 

It’s the main reason he agreed to leave Gotham when Babs and Dick suggested it. 

“Batman needs a Robin. I still believe that,” he whispers. “But Bruce needs something, too. And I can’t fix Batman without fixing Bruce first.” 

The rain pounds around him as he falls silent. As he stares at the grave like he has done so many times before, thoughts he’s been trying to forcefully push away come relentlessly back to him. 

In his desperate attempt not to think about it, the memory that started the dangerous line of thinking becomes the only thing he can think about. 

“Do you remember the last time we spoke, Jason?”

-

In the weeks after the New Year’s reception, Tim doesn't see much of Jason, but when he does, he gets a smile and a wave, and that's amazing in and of itself. They don't talk, never seem to find the time, but Tim is starting to feel hopeful they can become friends. 

Imagine that, friends with Robin. Not that he wouldn't want to be friends with Jason if he wasn't, but it just makes it that much more amazing. 

However, now that Tim is paying attention, Jason seems to miss an increasing amount of classes, even though he loves learning. His mood seems to be getting worse as well, and he's seen less with his friends and more on his own, smoking behind the bleachers. 

He thinks he may know part of the cause, as he’s seen Batman and Robin in the distance several times, arguing over something. He’s never been close enough to hear anything, but it seemed pretty intense. Ever since the fights started, something in the dynamic between the two has changed, although he can’t quite point out what. 

At one point, in the first week of April, Tim spots Jason sitting on the ground outside during his free period, and he looks so tense and alone he decides to go over. 

“Hey Jason,” he says. 

Jason looks up with a small smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, but seems genuine nonetheless. “Hey yourself, kiddo.” 

Tim grumbles, “Not a kid,” as he sits down beside Jason. 

“Sure.” 

He wonders if this is okay, but since Jason isn't telling him to go, he's gonna assume it is. Jason isn't the type to hold his tongue over something like that. 

They sit in silence for a bit, Tim hoping Jason will start talking on his own. When that doesn't happen, he hesitantly asks, “Are you okay?” 

Jason tenses up a little further. “What makes you ask that?” 

“Well, for one, you have your AP English Language class right now, and from what I can tell, you love lit,” Tim says. “For another, you’ve been avoiding your friends.”

Jason’s eyebrows shoot up. “You stalking me, little bird?” 

Tim feels his face heating up, because that’s basically what he does at night, isn’t it? Then the pet name registers. As does the slight blush to Jason’s complexion. 

Little bird? 

Really? 

It’s the perfect opportunity for deflection, though. 

“Little bird,” he repeats slowly. “Really?” 

Jason groans and bumps his head against the wall softly. “Sorry,” he says after a while. “It slipped out. Won’t happen again.”

It’s Tim’s surprise at the feeling that allows his disappointment to prompt him into saying, “I don’t mind.” 

_ What the hell did I say that for? _

“You don’t?” Jason sounds so hopeful in that moment that for a change it’s clear as day to Tim. 

“No, I don’t,” he says, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. “Kinda annoyed at the little, but you won’t stop mentioning my height any time soon anyway, and people don’t call me nicknames very often, so yeah, I don’t mind. Kinda like it, actually.”

Jason snorts when he mentions the height thing, but when he smiles at him this time, it reaches his eyes. “Damn right, I won’t stop,” he says.

They sit in peaceful silence then, both just soaking up the early spring sunlight. If Tim can’t provide Jason with the opportunity to talk out whatever is bothering him, he can at least be silent support. Jason’s a good person, and his dad seems to care about him a whole lot. He’s sure they’ll talk it out eventually. 

It surprises Tim when Jason starts to talk. 

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“What for?” Because Tim doesn’t have the faintest idea what Jason could have possibly done to feel the need to apologize so plainly. 

“You came to help, because you’re worried. And I’m just sitting here being a grumpy asshole.”

_ Oh. _

“I, uh, that’s okay. If you don’t wanna talk about it, don’t talk about it,” he says. “I can also leave, if you’d rather be alone.” 

He barely has the words out before Jason’s fingers are wrapped around his wrist. 

“Stay.”

Jason’s not looking at him anymore, instead staring intently at the space between his shoes. 

“Okay.” 

Tim doesn’t know what else to say at that point, so he just wraps his arms around his knees and looks out over the field in front of them, where a couple of students are messing around with a soccer ball.

He knows he’s made the right decision when Jason leans over a bit so their arms are touching and whispers, “Thanks.” Tim thinks that’s that, and he’ll sit here for a while and then they’ll go their separate ways. 

But as always, Jason surprises him. 

“It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, “just that I can’t.” 

Something Robin-related, then. And it’s not like Tim can just come out and tell Jason he already knows, either. 

Still…

“Not even if you leave out the details?” 

Jason sighs. “If I left all the details I’m not supposed to talk about out, there’s barely anything left of the story.”

Tim frowns. Big Robin trouble, then. 

“Okay,” he says, and leans so they’re pressing together a bit more firmly. 

“I’m leaving soon,” Jason says next, and Tim whips his head around to look at Jason again. 

“Leaving?” he asks, and he hates how small his voice sounds, how it betrays just how much he doesn’t want Jason to leave. 

He needs to calm down. Jason probably means he needs to go to his next class, or that he’s leaving to skip the rest of the day. It’s not like he’s gonna hop halfway around the world to leave Tim behind for months on end. 

“Yeah, there’s something I need to do. Not sure exactly where yet but looks like either Asia or Africa.” 

Okay, so Jason  _ is _ going halfway around the world. 

Tim fights to keep his body from tensing up, and his voice from trembling. “How long?”

“Not sure, a couple weeks, at least. I’ll definitely miss some school.”

And he can tell that Jason doesn’t like the idea of missing that many classes but that whatever he’s gonna be doing is important to him. So Tim can only do one thing at that point. 

“I see,” he says quietly. “Good luck.” 

The pressure against his side increases for a second. “Thanks.”

Fifteen minutes later, Tim is trying to decide whether he’s gonna leave for his next class, or if he’ll stay and skip. Jason makes the decision for him. 

“Don’t you have history in a bit?” he asks, and Tim shrugs. 

“Don’t feel much like going.” 

Jason’s face softens. “You don’t have to skip just to keep me company, you’ve helped me enough.” 

“You sure? I don’t mind.”

“Yeah.”

Tim looks at Jason for a bit longer, trying to find the lie, but it’s not there, so he stands up and gathers his things. It’s when he’s about to turn away with a mumbled farewell that Jason speaks up again. 

“Hey Tim?” he says, and waits for Tim to turn before continuing. “After I get back, there’s something I want to tell you. Is that alright?” 

Tim has no clue what Jason could possibly want to ask him that warrants asking permission in advance, but he can’t see the harm. Even if the red staining Jason’s cheeks is making it even weirder. “Yeah, of course.” 

A giant grin spreads across Jason’s face, and before he knows it, he’s engulfed in a warm hug. 

“Thanks,” Jason whispers, before shooing him off to class. 

-

“You know, at the time, I really had no clue what you wanted to say that was so important,” Tim says to the stone. “And technically, I still don’t.” 

He hadn’t even given it much thought, beyond briefly wondering about it a few weeks after Jason’s burial. 

“But I’m not stupid. And I’m not blind or deaf,” he continues. “Just a bit slow. But I know what Babs and Dick and Alfred  _ think _ about us. I can see it in the way they look at me when someone talks about you. But when I started seeing it for what it was, I didn’t want to see it. I  _ still _ don’t want to see it. I try so hard to steer them away from the topic, to steer my own thoughts away from it. Because it hurts, and I’m already hurting so much, and I’m really not sure if I can handle any more.” 

And now Tim’s here, because compartmentalising it away in the deepest corner of his being isn’t an option anymore. Because he keeps thinking about it whether he wants to or not. And while Babs and Alfred are pretty good about hiding it, Dick wears his bleeding heart on his sleeve. To be honest, even that, he could have handled, ignored. But Dick had to go and fuck it all up. 

_ I just wish he’d gotten around to telling you he wanted more than that. _

There’s no thud as Tim’s knees hit the soggy grass, or at least, he can’t hear it over the rain. 

“It’s not fair,” Tim whispers, and knows he sounds like a kid, but he doesn’t care, because it  _ isn’t _ . “It’s not fair that Dick went and said that. He had no right.”

Tears are starting to build up and this is exactly why he told Babs he wouldn’t tell the crush. Because it hurts, and it’s not fair, and—

“ _ You _ were supposed to tell me.” 

And Tim keeps telling himself he doesn’t know for sure that’s what Jason had meant, that it could have been anything. But somewhere along the line, that little seed of hope had been planted, and no matter what he does, it keeps growing, even though there’s no way it can ever lead to anything happy. 

And Tim, slow and naive as he is, hadn’t realized how much he wanted Jason to say something like that until he became aware the opportunity had been taken away from him. 

His vision blurs, as it often has here, and tears stream down his cheeks. Mud is soaking through his jeans and his hands, which are both holding onto his umbrella, are stiff with cold, but he doesn’t care. He just wants to sit here and feel miserable, and maybe, just maybe, if he’s really lucky, he’ll get this stupid, useless thing out of his system so he can concentrate on the things that really matter. 

He can mourn over lost romantic opportunities when he’s no longer being hunted by international criminal organisations. It’s clearly not doing him any good as even now, his brain keeps giving him these ridiculous delusions. 

Like the fact that he thinks the ground in front of him is moving. 

He blinks a couple times, sure the blurriness of his tears is causing the impression, but he still sees the grass shift up a bit before falling back. Then a few seconds later, it happens again, and Tim frowns. 

A mole? 

He looks around—wouldn’t a mole be actively pushing soil out? And shouldn’t there be more mole hills around, then? He also notices the water in the direct area is all flowing towards him, or rather, the patch of grass directly in front of him. 

Another ridiculous notion occurs to Tim and he’s dropped his umbrella before he can tell himself he’s seeing things. The rain pelts him with cold needles as he quickly becomes drenched, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. Instead he shuffles back a bit before planting himself flush on the ground, tilting his head and sweeping his gaze across the grass. 

It’s hollow. 

The ground of Jason’s grave is slightly hollow and moving. 

What the fuck?

When asked later, Tim won’t be able to explain why he did what he does next. Has no clear thought process to validate his course of action. Only the result that confirms his instinct was right. 

He crawls forward and digs into the part of the grass that’s moving most. 

It’s insane and desperate and somewhere in the back of his head, he’s calling himself delusional, but he can’t make himself stop. It’s slow going, and maybe he should be getting a shovel, but the idea of what would happen if this is real makes sticking a sheet of metal in soil when he doesn’t know how deep he needs to go unappealing. He also simply doesn’t want to stop for even a second. 

He’s vaguely aware of his phone ringing in his pocket, but he ignores it in favor of grabbing handfuls of dirt and flinging them to the side. Maybe he’s gone crazy, maybe he’s finally cracked under everything that’s happened, but he becomes quickly convinced something is pushing towards him. And yes, when he pauses for just a second, the movement of the soil is so much more noticeable now. 

Tim grits his teeth against the cold and starts digging with renewed energy. Above him, the predicted storm has finally started, lightning occasionally lighting up the cemetery. 

The cold helps, in a way, preventing him from feeling the damage he’s doing to his fingers in his desperation. 

When the ground stops shifting for a moment, he firmly pushes away thoughts of oxygen and a human’s need for it and prepares to keep digging.

Only for a bruised, bloody hand to burst from the mud. 

He doesn’t even think before grabbing the hand and giving it a quick squeeze. It grasps back as soon as they make contact, seemingly trying to pull itself up through the rest of the soil. He holds on to the hand, maybe to remind himself this is real, maybe to inform the owner of the hand—he can’t quite allow himself to think a name yet—that he’s got someone helping. He keeps digging with his other hand and soon, a second hand breaks through the surface. 

That’s when the hand lets go of him in favor of planting both hands on the mud, seemingly flexing in an effort to pull up. 

Time ticks along in flashes of lightning as Tim digs between the hands which have somehow found pieces of firm grass to hold. Then a mud covered head is breaking through, gasping for air, and Tim is standing holding both arms and pulling with all his might. Then he’s on the ground again with his arms full of a gasping and coughing figure, but everything is too wet and cold to tell if the body is warm and he doesn’t realize he’s been chanting, “Please don’t be a zombie,” on repeat until a cracking but familiar voice interrupts him. 

“Don’t worry, Little Bird,” Jason croaks, his voice dry with six months of disuse. “I promise I’m not about to eat your brain.” 

Tim tightens his arms around Jason, doesn’t lift his head from where it’s pressed against the crook of his neck, and gasps out, “Jason.”

Jason hisses a bit. “Not that I don’t appreciate the welcome committee, but careful. I think my ribs are busted to all hell, and you’re a lot stronger than I remember.”

That prompts Tim into sitting back and assessing Jason’s state. His face is bruised and bleeding from multiple cuts, he’s breathing in that same shallow way Tim was just a few weeks ago, and his hands are a mess. What little of his skin isn’t covered by his suit or mud is either bleeding or burned. His mind automatically compares the visible injuries to the ones on the pictures he found in Jason’s files. He can’t be sure quite yet, but it looks like Jason’s got all the injuries he had when he died. 

He needs a hospital, and he needs it fast. 

“Sorry,” Tim says belatedly. “Think you can stand?”

Jason frowns. “Might need some help.” 

So Tim stands up and holds out his hand for Jason to take, who looks at it skeptically before taking it and allowing him to pull him up with a hiss. 

“Woah, just how long was I in there?” Jason asks as Tim ducks under one of his arms and wraps his own gently but firmly around his side. “I think you grew two inches overnight.”

“Three,” Tim answers absently while maneuvering to get his phone out of his pocket. “I grew three inches in the last—”

Later, he’s glad he was cut off by his distraction. What good would it have done to tell Jason then and there he’d been in the grave for six whole months? That he’d been dead for that long?

Now, he’s not concerned with Jason’s mental well-being, not when he’s staring at the completely dead phone in his hands. The phone that had full charge when he left home not even two hours ago. 

“Shit.” 

A couple of things happen at the same time. 

Jason goes tense and attempts to shove Tim behind him despite barely being able to stand. Tim reacts to this by following along, supporting Jason despite his protests. A large number of figures seem to materialize out of thin air all around them, and Tim has no better word for them than ‘ninja’. And a voice calls from behind them. 

“I believe you’ll find that your technology is no longer working, Timothy.” 

Tim turns and spots a figure too far away to make out properly in the darkness and the rain. His voice sounds familiar, though. Enough so as to make him freeze up in terror. On automatic, he slips his phone back into his pocket and grabs the back-up panic button. 

“That one won’t work either, I’m afraid.” 

Jason is tense as solid steel beside him, but has given up on trying to shield Tim because they’re completely surrounded. In fact, he’s leaning on Tim more heavily than before. 

“Mr. Head, I presume?” Tim asks, and he’s proud of how steady his voice is despite the way his heart is hammering away and his lungs seem to be frozen. 

A light chuckle. “Indeed. I knew you’d figure it out. Well done, Timothy.” 

Tim straightens up as much as he can while bearing Jason’s weight. “What do you want?”

“What I’ve wanted all along. What your dear departed mother refused to give me,” Mr. Head says. “You, as my pupil.” 

_ What? _

If at all possible, Jason tenses up even further beside him. “I get a feeling I missed a shitload of things,” he whispers, barely moving his lips. 

If he’s trying to hide it from Mr. Head, his effort is wasted. 

“Hasn’t Batman ever taught you it’s rude to whisper among company, Boy Wonder?” 

“I don’t know where you got that idea, but it’s ridiculous.” Jason’s voice is high with the denial, and Mr. Head scoffs. 

“If you’re acting dumb because of your friend, you’re wasting your breath,” he says, “He’s known for years.” 

From his peripheral, he can see Jason turn to look at him, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Mr. Head. “Tim?” 

“You’ve missed more than a shitload, Jason.” 

“That’s not what I was asking, and you know it.” 

Tim sighs and shifts to meet Jason’s eyes. “Yeah, I’ve known for a while,” he says. “And I promise I’ll explain if we manage to get out of this alive, but let’s focus on that first.” 

When he looks back, he thinks Mr. Head has shifted a bit closer, but he’s not sure. He still can’t make out the man’s features. “Straight to the point, as always. It’s one of the things I admire about you.” 

Tim grits his teeth. “Yeah well, I can live just fine without that admiration, so leave me alone, please.” 

A short silence follows, but when Mr. Head speaks again it’s still in that deceptively jovial tone. “I take it that means you do not wish to study under my guidance?”

“You’re clearly delusional if you think I’d ever want to study under you after what you did to my parents,” Tim says, keeping calm with the pure force of his will. 

“I’d advise you to reconsider, boy,” Mr. Head says, and for the first time since he appeared, lightning provides enough light for Tim to see his face. He feels his blood freeze in his veins. All at once, it’s all so clear to him, and he can’t believe he didn’t put it together sooner.

Jason curses softly beside Tim, but he’s too busy staring in horror at a face he’s seen only once before, way back when he was snooping around in Dick’s computer, to react to it. He knows in that second his life is shifting around him, as it has been for the last six months, but much more abruptly. He’s not getting out of this. Not with an injured Jason to protect. Definitely not with his barely healed ribs. 

Because if this man was willing to kill Tim’s mother, than he’s certainly willing to kill Jason, and where Janet Drake was completely willing to sacrifice herself for his freedom, he’s unwilling to sacrifice Jason for the same. 

And this man will know that. 

“Ra’s al Ghul,” he whispers in the knowledge he stands before the leader of the League of assassins. Even as a predatory smile grows on Ra’s’ face, Tim wonders how the hell he managed to grab this man’s attention. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! So that's it for GraveRobbin'.  
I'd like to thank anyone that got to this point for sticking with me till the end, or at least the end for now.   
I am definitely writing a sequel, as mentioned before, but I wanted to make that extra clear one more time as I understand the ending is a bit of a sucker punch. The story has been added to a series, which the sequel will be added to as well as soon as I start posting it. You can also keep a lookout for a new story called: "Birds'-Eye View".   
I'm not exactly sure when I'll start posting it, though, as I need to do some story-planning before I can start actively writing it, and I'm also eager to get to some other WIP's I've been neglecting in favor of finishing GraveRobbin'.   
Finally I want to thank both njw, who patiently stuck with me through all me rants and insecurities throughout the writing process, as well as every single one of you who kudo'd, commented, bookmarked, and/or subscribed. It gives me so much energy to see those, and I appreciated them all!   
I hope I'll see you guys soon in the next part!!


End file.
